


Once Upon a Me and You

by Collective_Challenge



Category: Grey's Anatomy, Japril - Fandom
Genre: AU, Adventure, Angst, Animation, Animation movies, Crime, Disney, Drama, Dreamworks, F/M, Family, Fantasy, Horror, Humor, Mystery, Pixar, Romance, Science Fiction, Supernatural - Freeform, Suspense, cartoon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2019-10-21 16:07:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 39,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17646029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Collective_Challenge/pseuds/Collective_Challenge
Summary: Yet another challenge for you written by us, this time aiming to satisfy the child within. These Japril-tales were inspired by Disney/Pixar, DreamWorks and your favorite TV cartoons. Join us every Sunday for the next exciting peek into a whole new world!





	1. Introduction

Hehehe, guess who's back! ;)

Hi guys! The Collective is back in town, so sit back and journey with us to lands where magic is more than just a fairytale. Yes, that's right. Join us on this wild ride as Japril meander their way through animated movies, fairytales and cartoons!

There will be one upload each Sunday, so stay tuned. Each new week WE challenge YOU to figure out who the author is, and which Disney/Dreamworks movie or cartoon the fanfiction is based on, and leave a comment below. And then at the end of the challenge, let us know which story you liked the best.

It might seem minor, but even the smallest comment is so important to us. We obviously don't get paid for this, and it takes so much work to plan, organize, coordinate, write, beta read and post what you are seeing on your screen. Comments are what's driving us, what keeps us going. And with the Japril fandom going through such a dark period right now, this is an attempt to give you all – and ourselves- a bit of hope, and we cannot do that without motivation. Without  _you_.

So leave comments. Support us, and help us keep Japril alive :)

 

**The authors:**

Faz (FaziO)

Truli (demitruli aka japrilgreys)

Jerry (Jerry_L aka Delicatenachocollector)

Ann (Japril12)

Nicole (Cendella)

Mel (MelMel1234)

Ari (greysficsngifsnstuff)

Reign

Eve (LeandraDeRaven)

Dee (absolutelylovelife)

Zee (Fuckwithdacey)

...And a special thanks to Minttobe_ on twitter for giving us the main idea for the cover!

 

Thank you all! Enjoy!

**\- Truli**

 

_Disclaimer: All characters belong to Shonda Rhimes, Shondaland, Grey's Anatomy and ABC_ (unfortunately) _. All animation movies and cartoons belong to Disney, Pixar, Dreamworks and their creators and networks._


	2. Codename

"I always knew that this day would come. You at your most vulnerable, on the precipice of failure and I victorious. Any last words?"

Jackson grunted with effort and finally gave up on struggling on the knots that bound his hands behind his back.

He had been in tighter binds than this and didn't think about giving up for a second. Everything his mentor showed him, all the training he had gone through, to just give up now would be both cowardly and wasteful.

"Not really." Jackson admitted, biding his time and then grinned through the pain of the rope burns that he was sure were indented in both his wrists. "Do you have anything to say, we've been through a lot together haven't we, J.D.?"

He laughed madly and wildly in that cliché sort of villainous way that happened right before the long-winded monologue the bad guy went on right before they dropped said hero into a huge vat of acid or were tied to a conveyor belt and sawed completely in half. At least in Jackson's case he was only immobilized for the moment, no direct threat to his life in sight yet, with two henchmen on either side of his body were there to make sure he wouldn't make a break for it.

"You, Jackson Avery have been a thorn in my side for too long!" he declared and then walked over to his console in the middle of the room and clasped his hands together as if he was about to make an historic announcement. He flicked a few switches on that resulted in the raising of the platform and illuminating the warehouse.

The lights are bright and blinding at first and he had to shut his eyes before they could adjust, after being in the dark for so long it was almost painful to look but he had to see what he was up against. Jackson turned onto his side to witness him standing over them, the white, pristine lab coat he was wearing paired with his huge goggles had him resembling a mad scientist.

"Not that this hasn't been fun, but can you get onto the part where you explain yourself. I pulled a muscle in my shoulder last week at practice, being stuck in this position isn't good for my posture."

"Enough!" J.D. shouted angrily, lifting his palm to hover over a big red button that with any indication was sure to change the world. "Now all you can is sit back and watch as my satellite melts the polar ice caps and submerges 70% of the earth!"

That got him, and he tried to wriggle free to put a stop to him destroying the entire world, but it was no use. The two burly henchmen forced him back down, rough hands grabbing his shoulders, so he was practically immobilized.

However, before Jackson could attempt to move an inch all the lights went off around them and sounds of breaking glass, limbs moving through the air swiftly and bones crunching.

And then silence, followed by the steady thuds of heavy boots getting closer to him and he saw a shock of red hair.

April folded her arms across her chest and looked down at him, smirking and he could instantly read her mind with one look at her face. She had told him that they needed to stay where they were on stake out, but he thought they should have split up. Needless to say, she was right.

"Need a hand?"

"Took you long enough."

"Hey!" April crouched down and started untying him "I saved your ass. I tried to tell you that there were more eyes on us than I first anticipated, and we needed to re-assess," April finished getting him loose and tossed the ropes to the side. They both stood at the same time and he flexed his wrists, so they weren't so sore. "Also, I just saved your ass. A thank you would be nice."

"Yeah, yeah, and now I'm forever in your debt." Jackson dropped his arms and looked over his shoulder to see if anyone had followed her down her but looked like they were safe. He trusted April could make it over the ravine without anyone spotting her, they'd been partners for over a year and a half now but like she said they could never be too careful.

They rushed over to the console and disabled the controls with the seconds to spare.

The world was safe again, thanks to them.

Jackson released a sigh of relief and slumped forward. "That'll do it. Back up will be here any minute."

He locked eyes with her again but this time she cracked a smile. "Good cuz' I need to finish that Math homework."

 

* * *

 

_**16 HOURS LATER** _

"Kepner! Hey, Kepner," A shrill voice called after her and April squeezed her eyes shut, plastering a smile on her face. She didn't want to draw this interaction out longer than it could be and April didn't have it in her to be mean spirited but dealing with Jackson's crowd was always something that she'd avoid if she could.

"Hi, Samantha." April folds her arms, keeping a comfortable distance from the blonde cheerleader. She still remembered when the girl locked her in a shower stall with the water running and she had to walk home in wet clothes. "What's up?"

"Oh, nothing you've probably heard- I mean who hasn't?" Samantha flips her golden locks over her shoulder and then presses her open palm on her chest. April has no idea what she was to have supposed to heard about. Los Angeles wasn't exactly the middle of nowhere, but no one had transferred in or out of their class since the 7th grade, everyone knew who everyone was unfortunately that meant in April's case she was subjected to this more than she'd like.

It was always something.

"I'm- well my parents are throwing their annual gala at the town hall. The who's who and local dignitaries of the city are gonna be there. It would be great if you could mention it to Jackson," And there it was. "If you get the chance. I'm sure college scouts are going to be there too."

She wasn't Jackson's sidekick. Although, he did tease her about that from time to time with how their dynamic was set up when they worked together but she wouldn't let anyone get away with that.

"Don't you see him at practice every day?"

"I have a team to lead Kepner. Not everyone can be a professional slacker like you." Samantha turned on her heel and disappeared through the crowd.

April squeezed the air between her fingers and gritted her teeth. One day that girl would get a piece of her mind.

An arm settled around her shoulders before her thoughts became increasingly worse. "As much as I would love it I think dropkicking the girl across the hall would reveal too much."

"But it would be so worth it." April muttered under her breath and tossed her head back.

"Ah come on. We're going to be late for class." Jackson chuckled with one arm still around her shoulder as they walked to down the hallway.

"Um, we don't need to be in Math for another 20 minutes. Where are we going?"

He dragged her outside the building to courtyard where the students could buy food, but it wasn't their period for lunch.

"The food truck is back today." He informed her, eyes wide like he was spilling a secret as if she couldn't see the silver, oversized van that was stationed just outside the fence. "I need to get my share of tacos before they all sell out."

"These are your priorities?" April questioned him, lagging slightly when he finally let go of her wrist.

"Don't be mad because I thought of it first." he finished his order. She sidled up to him and rolled her eyes.

"Uh huh."

"Yeah and if you keep up that attitude then you won't get one either." Jackson sassed, checking her with his hip and she did the same to him.

Jackson had been expecting to be hit by the aroma of flagrant meat and salsa however when the vender returned to the window he didn't have any taco shells in his hands and was instead pushing a giant metal vacuum chute towards them.

"Oh no…"

"Not now."

But before they could comment any further a sharp, strong gust of air blasted through, whipping around them and the errant pieces of trash in the courtyard. Jackson and April were lifted and sucked through the chute. Zooming through the contraption and further and further away from the school.

When they came to an abrupt halt it was only a few seconds later, crash landing onto a large plush couch. That had been April's suggestion about the fifth time they had been summoned to headquarters.

"That is…" April held her temples and gasped for breath. She was a little grossed out that she smelled like taco meat. "The worst part of this gig. And how many times have I said that I don't appreciate being vacuum packed before lunch!"

"Today Kepner that would be 407 but enough of the pleasantries. He walks forward and helps himself to the set of freshly wrapped tacos beside them still hot thanks to the quick journey they made down the hatch here to him.

"What is it this time, Sloan?" Jackson asked, getting his bearings.

"Good morning to you, Avery." Sloan said around a mouthful of food, hesitating before he took another bite. "Oh, I'm sorry did you two want some? It's just that ever since they started that whole healthier eating plan in the canteen I can't stand to eat from the suppliers here."

"We're good." April replied, holding in a chuckle before catching Jackson's eye who mirrored her expression.

"What's our mission?"

Sloan walked back to his desk and flicked a button on the console that brought up a hologram screen showing the town hall, the whole block decorated for the event that was going to be hosted later that night. April recognized it to be the event that Samantha had been talking about a few minutes ago and fought the urge to roll her eyes. She couldn't avoid this thing even if she wanted to.

"The annual midtown gala is being held tomorrow night. Your job is to infiltrate, survey and get all the information on him," Mark pressed another button and the image of short, thin man with a salt and pepper beard. In his hand, was a large file that he was stuffing into the inside of his coat.

"And who is he exactly?"

"No one really knows, from what we consolidated over the years he goes by a couple of aliases, Vaughn, Ric and most recently George O'Malley," Mark informed them, scratching his beard, "We believe that he was involved in the Fairbanks heist last month and is definitely planning something for the event tonight. We need you to stop him from getting out of LA."

"So, we're gala crashing tonight." Jackson smirked.

"For intel." April tapped her hand on his shoulder. "Don't forget the mission."

"Right. Do not blow your cover," Mark warned, then checked his watch with a grin. "You better get going."

He pressed the eject button on his desk that lifted the springs on the couch and launched them out of a hatch that opened just as quickly.

"Good luck!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We hope you enjoyed the first submission. Don't forget to leave a comment, guessing the author and the cartoon that inspired this story ;) See you next week!


	3. The Curse

Mark Sloan smiled at the beautiful young woman sitting next to him at the bar. This was certainly fortuitous. He had been on his fourth beer when she alighted next to him. And she had immediately been receptive to his overtures. No question about it, this babe was all but signed, sealed, and delivered.

"Dede," he began.

"Desiree." she corrected.

"Right, Desiree, I need to make a quick pit stop then how about we get outta this dive and go someplace a little more classy?"

"Classy? That's disappointing. I thought we might go to your place."

Mark's big grin got even bigger. "Exactly what I was thinking."

"Your place is classy?"

"Hell yeah. We wash the glasses."

"What about the sheets?" she asked, batting her long eyelashes seductively.

For the first time ever, Mark wondered if he was biting off more than he could chew. Figuratively of course. Suddenly he had a distressing thought. "Hey, you're not a hooker are you?"

She smiled and shook her head.

"Tranny?"

"Would it be a problem if I were?"

Mark looked her over and grinned again. "Nope! I'm open to new experiences."

"Well I'm not a transsexual but your openness is duly noted." Her smile both excited and frightened him.

"Uh, I really have to take a piss. Don't you go anywhere. I'll be back in a flash."

"Don't make me wait too long."

That simple admonishment caused him to hustle his way toward the mens room, wishing he hadn't drank so much beer earlier.

 

* * *

 

Jackson watched him go. Once the woman had appeared at the bar, Mark had completely forgotten his star pupil. Now with an unobstructed view of her, he understood why.

Jackson slid over onto Mark's now unoccupied barstool.

She looked at him through those dark lashes.

"So, I'm wondering why a beautiful young woman like you would settle for a broken down old guy like Mark Sloan?" Jackson said with a seductive smile.

Her expression betrayed some surprise but she said nothing. So Jackson continued.

"I mean he's a great guy. Lots of laughs and all. But at his age, you've got to question his stamina and ability to.., shall we say, keep up with someone such as yourself."

Desiree shook her head in wonder and smiled. "Are you seriously trying to steal me away from him while he's pissing? Isn't he your mentor?"

Mark must have told her that when he wasn't paying attention, thought Jackson, forgetting that he had paid very close attention to everything that they had said.

"Just pointing out that life is too short to waste time that could be amazingly well spent elsewhere."

"Oh, so this is all for my benefit then." she scoffed.

"Exactly." Jackson smiled his dazzling smile. She really is gorgeous. He personally preferred redheads but the way her jet black hair danced around her face whenever she moved was mesmerizing.

"So you have no problem moving in on your mentor, one of your best friends, a frickin father figure to you? Just so you can score a nice piece of ass."

Suddenly Jackson wasn't so sure of this. The way she said this somehow made her seem less desirable and a little scary, to be honest. And, he realized, how the hell did she know anything about his relationship with Mark? But now it was too late.

Desiree laughed quietly. "Oh my. This is too good. I came for him but you end up being even worse."

Jackson was mystified. "What do you mean  _came for him_  and  _even worse?"_.

"Jackie boy, ever heard the expression  _Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned?_ "

"Of course."

"Well, there's a corollary to that that goes  _Payback's a bitch._ "

"That's not a corol..."

"Whatever! Let me make it simple for you. I came for Sloan because he's spent a lifetime chasing tail and using women with no regard for their feelings. But now you have come along and proven that you're even worse in that you're willing to even betray your closest friends so you can do the same."

"Listen, I haven't been getting any complaints." Jackson protested

"Because you're never around long enough to hear them. No, Jackson Avery, the evidence is clear. The time of punishment is at hand."

"Punishment? Oh, now I get it. This is one of those Shades of Grey's Anatomy things. Yes, I've been a very bad boy. I need a spanking so bad."

Desiree shook her head violently. "No, you idiot! You're in some serious shit here. I'm thinking a really nasty curse is in order."

"Okay. I can dig the dirty talk. But can we work this out on our way to your place? Pretty sure Sloan will be back any second and I am definitely not into the two guys one girl thing. Not today at least."

"That's IT! Jackson Avery, I place the Curse of EDD upon you."

"No, not the curse of ED! The last thing I want to do is have to see Mayfield again."

"Not Erectile Dysfunction ED! Emotional Dysfunction Disorder EDD!"

" Emotional Dysfunction Disorder? What the hell is that?" Jackson asked.

Desiree looked at him in disgust. "You're the frickin doctor. Why don't you know?"

"I'm working toward a Plastics fellowship. What do I care about emotional disorders?"

"Exactly the problem. As you're about to find out, a person with EDD is incapable of love. With your family history you know what kind of damage that person can do to those around him."

Jackson looked at her suspiciously. "How do you know anything about my family history?"

"I know everything. It's part of my job description." Desiree smirked.

"Well, whatever you think you know, you're wrong. I'm nothing like him." Jackson didn't like being reminded of his father, and he especially didn't like being compared to him.

"Oh, but you are. You, Jackson Avery, are incapable of loving and this curse will prove it. For the next year, or until the curse is broken, anyone who cares for you without you loving them in return, will suffer a terrible fate."

"Wait!  _They_  will suffer a terrible fate? Not me? How is that supposed to teach me a lesson?."

"The very fact that you ask that question tells me how much you have to learn."

"So this curse of yours lasts a year? All I need to do is fall in love with someone by the end of the year? That doesn't seem too hard."

"Oh, if only it were that simple, Jackie boy. No, the way this curse works is that you must really and truly love someone before a year has passed or you will never ever find love. And anyone who loves you without you loving them in return will be lost."

"Lost? What do you mean  _lost_?"

"Ha Ha, that's the kicker. During the next year, if someone develops feelings for you, but you don't love them back at least equally, I'll take them from you."

"Take them from me? How?"

Desiree thought for a moment. "I'll turn them into things at the hospital."

Jackson stared at her. "You know you're a loony bird right?"

"Am I? What if I was to tell you the curse has already claimed someone?"

"I would reiterate that you are freakin crae, as in Z.."

"And who cares about you, Jackson?"

"Well, my mother, obvi."

"She's the one exception. I can't touch her. Who else?"

"Well, I can't think of anyone else really. I mean I have a lot of friends and stuff but the only person I sort of really have any emotional attachment to is..." Suddenly Jackson looked toward the Mens room. Mark had been in there an awful long time.

"Maybe you should go check on him, Jackson."

But he was already moving toward the restroom door.

Jackson was back a minute later.

"Where is he? What have you done to him?"

"He's not dead. I told you. I turned him into something over in that hospital of yours."

"What? What did you turn him into?"

"I believe you call it  _The Artemis._ "

"You turned him into the prostate imaging device!"

"I thought it apropos. Anyway, it's better than my original plan for him. Of course, if you fail to find true love in the next year, he'll permanently be stuck in the Artemis."

"Wait! You mean if I fall in love with someone before the year is over he'll be free?"

"Yes, that will break the curse."

"But how do I make myself fall in love with someone before they get turned into a stethoscope or something?"

"That's your problem. Now, it's time for me to go. In about a half hour some asshole is going to try and drug some poor girl in a bar in Tacoma and I intend for it to be me. You think you've got it tough? Wait till I get done with that creep. TaTa!"

"Wait! How will you know if I break the curse or not?"

Desiree was already halfway to the door. "Don't worry. I'll know. I'll be keeping a close eye on you my friend."

And then she was gone.

 

* * *

 

Jackson woke up the next morning thinking he had dreamt the whole thing. But when he arrived at the hospital Mark Sloan was nowhere to be found.

He made his way to the Proctology lab. He slipped in the door and found it empty and quiet. The Artemis sat idle and silent right where it always did. Jackson shook his head. It was insane to think that lady could turn Sloan into a machine.

But as he turned to leave he heard a beep. Turning back he saw the Artemis console powering up. "What the f…?"

He walked over to the machine and stood staring in disbelief as the system finished powering up and letters began appearing on the console.

**Avery! What the hell? How did I get stuck in this thing?**

"Mark? Is that you? Is that really you?" Jackson gasped.

**You know anybody else that got turned into a proctology scanner?**

"Sloan, I'm so sorry, man."

**So it was you! I thought that woman was bullshitting me. I must say, I'm very disappointed in you, son. Proud as hell, but very disappointed.**

Yep, that's Sloan alright, thought Jackson. "Listen, Mark, I'm gonna get you outta there. I promise."

**You'd better! You know who they use this thing on? Old men! I've already done three exams this morning. There's a reason I went into Plastics and not Proctology.**

"Hang in there, Mark. I always keep my promises. Well, almost always. For sure, when I can anyway, which is some of the time." Jackson realized he probably wasn't instilling too much confidence in his cursed mentor. "Meanwhile, is there anything I can do for you? Maybe a little WD40 or a fresh battery?

**No, nothing like that. My maintenance seems up-to-date. Just do me one favor?"**

"Sure, anything."

**Check up on Lexie for me. Poor kid. She must be heartbroken that I'm missing.**

"Sure thing, boss. I'm on it."

Jackson heard voices just outside the door. "Uh-oh, better shut down. But I'll be back soon."

**Just don't forget about me.**

"I won't." Jackson pressed the power button and the screen went dark just in time. The door opened and a lab technician wheeled an old man in a hospital gown into the room. Jackson nodded at the tech as he left the room. Poor Mark, he thought.

 

* * *

 

Mark Sloan had disappeared from the face of the earth. Lexie Grey was inconsolable. As Mark requested, Jackson tried to be there for her and console her. Big mistake.

He had hoped he would fall in love with her. He knew she still loved Mark so he thought she might be safe from developing feelings for him. Just in case, he decided to avoid getting into anything physical with her. Well, aside from the kisses. And then that led to some other things. And he really tried to have feelings for her, aside from the sexual kind, but it didn't quite work and next thing he knew, Lexie Grey was also missing.

The hospital was rocked with speculation that Lexie and Mark had run off together. Only Jackson knew better.

Jackson slipped into the driver's seat of his car and almost had a heart attack when he heard a voice from the back seat.

"Are there any cases where you won't try to steal a woman from your quote unquote mentor?"

"What the fu...! What are you doing in my car?" Jackson looked in the rearview mirror and saw a person that looked remarkably like Betty White looking back at him. " You about scared me to death! And what's with the old lady getup?"

"Oh, unknot your panties. I told you I'd be keeping an eye on you. And I can appear as anybody I want."

"Well, I don't know why you'd go with old Mother Hubbard if you can be anyone. I figured it was you when Lexie disappeared. What did you do with her?"

"I believe you call it a Speculum?"

"You turned Lexie into a vaginal speculum? Oh crap, she must be so pissed. Would have been more to Mark's liking I'm thinking."

"I'm not rewarding them, you moron. I'm actually punishing them."

"For what?"

"For being stupid enough to care about you."

"Lexie wasn't falling for me. She loves Sloan."

"That doesn't mean she can't care for you as well. Besides, you didn't let that stop you from jumping her bones, did you?"

"That's not her fault. I'm irresistible. This whole curse thing is very unfair." Jackson protested.

"Yeah, well so is taking advantage of other people's feelings." replied the old woman

"Well, I'm done with that. I'm not even going to talk to a woman unless I'm sure I'm in love with her."

"Really? Let me know how that works out for you. On second thought, don't bother, I already know. See you soon."

Jackson turned to find his back seat empty. "How does she do that?" he wondered aloud.

 

* * *

 

Sitting on the table in the Proctology lab and sipping his coffee, Jackson watched as the Artemis screen again filled with characters unprintable in a Disney themed fanfic. "I know, I know, I F'd up. For the thousandth time, I'm sorry. I should not have slept with the love of your life. But, in my defense, you did ask me to take care of her."

**You know I didn't mean sexually!**

"Yeah, I know. But she has such a tight body…"

**It's a lot tighter now!**

"Tell me about it. I stopped by the Gyno exam room and barely escaped my first ever pap smear."

**Yeah, she's pretty upset with you!**

"What? You can talk to her?"

**Yeah. All the equipment talks to each other. It's wild. The dermatome in the Plastics lab has a crush on you. She says you have soft hands and the way you handle her knobs is …**

"Stop! I can't handle any machine porn in my life right now. We've got to figure this mess out."

**We? I thought you had this under control?**

"I thought so too. Three months ago a year seemed like plenty of time to fall in love. But now …"

**Come on, Avery, this hospital is crawling with hotties. Find one and fall in love already. I can't take much more of this. This is not the most pleasant job in the hospital you know.**

 

* * *

 

Two months later, Stephanie Edwards was the next person to disappear. Jackson stepped into the dimly lit oncall room, stripped off his shirt, and slid into the bed only to find himself cuddling up to Richard Webber, or at least a person he thought was Richard Webber.

He jumped out of bed abruptly. "Sir! Chief Webber! I'm so sorry sir. I thought..."

"I know what you thought." Richard replied gruffly. "You thought you'd be playing doctor with Edwards."

"Well, uh, we did have some plans." Jackson replied hesitantly.

"Well your plans have changed, unless you care to try your luck with the ultrasound machine in 301."

"Ultrasound machine? Hey, wait a minute. You're not Chief Webber are you?"

"No, genius. I just added another device to the hospital inventory thanks to you. Did you really not catch on to how much Stephanie likes you?"

"Well, I really like her too. Her body is amazing. And she really knows how to ..."

Webber cut him off. "You really don't get it, do you? These people genuinely care for you but all you care about is getting your rocks off."

"Not true!" protested Jackson, "I want them to get off too. I have a reputation to maintain, you know."

Webber shook his head. "Ugh, this is just too easy. You had better get your act together before the hospital runs out of doctors to operate all this new machinery. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a prostate exam to get to."

When Jackson showed up in the proctology lab with his coffee the next morning the only thing the Artemis would display was…

**Webber. I don't think I can ever forgive you for this. But proud of you for Edwards.**

 

* * *

 

A month later, Jackson was still dressing as Cristina left the supply room.

"Really?" asked the pretty nurse that was suddenly standing there.

This time Jackson knew right away who he was talking to.

"Oh, come on. Don't tell me Yang fell for me too. What is she now, a toaster?"

"Don't be ridiculous. She's almost as bad as you are, or at least she pretends to be. No, can't count that one. You mean absolutely nothing to her."

"Well, that's a little disappointing." admitted Jackson.

"You mean because that was your big chance to break the curse?"

"No, because now I feel used and degraded ."

Desiree shook her head in disbelief. "You are hopeless. I don't know why we don't just call it right now. That way I won't have to keep coming back here and turning people into instruments."

"And leave them all stuck like that forever? No way, you gave me a year to fall in love and you're not cutting me off now."

"Okay, okay. But you only have about six months left."

"Plenty of time" Jackson replied, trying to sound more confident than he actually was. "Of course I've also got to study for the Boards. And I have to find my lucky pencil."

"Have you looked in all the nurses?" Desiree smirked.

"My  _other_  lucky pencil." Jackson answered angrily.

 

* * *

 

For Jackson, the next three months were hell. He became increasingly nervous around women. When they smiled at him, he averted his eyes. When they talked to him he would actually turn and hurry away. He knew he'd never be able to fall in love this way but he couldn't stand the thought of causing another person to fall to the curse.

He couldn't eat. He couldn't sleep. And his studying for the boards was a disaster in the making. The only thing keeping him in the game was his best friend, April Kepner.

She found him one day furiously flipping through pages in his study guide, his face reflecting pure panic.

"Jackson, are you okay?" she asked.

"Okay? Okay?" he answered shrilly. "No, I am not okay. I just realized I'm like three months behind on my study schedule and we only have three months until the test. I'm doomed."

"Oh, Jackson, I'm sure it can't be that bad. Show me what you've covered so far."

But after he'd showed her what he'd managed to study so far there was no hiding the concern on her face. "Uh, well, you do have some work to do. How about we study together? I'm actually a little ahead of schedule and the review with you will do me some good too."

He looked at her with an expression of gratitude and relief. April was the only person in the world that could calm him down and put him back on track. She was the only one he really trusted. "April, you are the best. I don't know what I'd do without you. I'd be lost."

"Oh, stop. There's a lot more to you than you give yourself credit for."

"You always say that but I think you're the only one who can see it."

"Well, I am much more perceptive than anyone else." she smiled.

"No argument from me." Jackson answered with a smile of his own.

 

* * *

 

For the next two months Jackson spent every available moment with April studying. And it was a lifesaver for him. His weakness was her strength. Where he was brilliant but scattered and disorganized, she was amazingly well ordered and disciplined. When he began to wander she brought him back on task. When he became angry and frustrated, she calmed him and resurrected his spirits.

It was just a week before the exams when April ceremoniously closed the thick study binder she had assembled for them and smiled at him.

"What? We're stopping now? It's only ten o'clock?" Jackson questioned.

"We're done." April answered triumphantly. "We've covered it all."

"That's impossible." a stunned Jackson replied.

"Then we've done the impossible." April answered. "You did it, Jackson. You caught up." she said.

"We did it, you mean." he answered with a smile.

She reached across the table to lay her hand atop his. "Okay, we did it. Me and you."

Her touch was electric. Jackson was amazed. He had never noticed it before though he was sure they had touched a million times in their years of friendship. "Me and you." he heard himself answering.

Looking at her sitting across from him he suddenly felt light headed. Must be the relief from finally finishing studying, he thought. But part of him questioned whether that was really the reason.

"Well, I guess I'll go to bed and get a good night's sleep for once." April said quietly.

'Or…" Jackson began, "we could go celebrate with some beer and pizza."

"Beer and pizza? That does sound pretty good."

Jackson breathed a sigh of relief. He realized he hadn't wanted her to leave him. Not yet. "My treat."

"Your treat? Sounds even better." she laughed. He'd heard her laugh a million times too. Why did this time make his heart race and his eyes smile so hard? And why did he feel like he'd lost a part of himself when she withdrew her hand from his to get up and fetch her coat?

 

* * *

 

It might have been the beer. More likely though it was April. Their friendship had blossomed despite having very little in common. Very early in it Jackson had felt a protectiveness of her that even he couldn't quite fathom. And she, who always saw the best in everyone around her, always insisted that Jackson Avery was of special quality, even as others dismissed him as shallow and unworthy of his famous name. It was the relationship in his life that he valued most, aside from his mother. With April alone, Jackson kept no secrets. So it was that Jackson found himself telling her a fantastic story over pizza and beer, claiming that he was responsible for the tragic disappearances at Grey Sloan, and that the clock was about to run out on a curse that would doom himself to a loveless life and his friends to imprisonment in hospital instruments forever.

Anyone else probably would have thought Jackson crazy. But April listened and watched and what she saw and heard convinced her that Jackson was telling the truth.

"But she's wrong," April protested when Jackson had finally finished, "just because you haven't fallen in love yet doesn't mean you can't."

"Tell her that. She's pretty convinced that's the deal and I've got to admit, nothing I've done over the last twelve months has hurt her case too much."

"Well, I can't really defend some of your choices," April admitted, "but it doesn't prove anything about your capability to love."

Jackson was about to reply when he was interrupted by the sudden appearance of Catherine Avery beside their table.

"What's this about my son and love?" she asked.

"Mom? What are you doing here?" a surprised Jackson asked her. "I thought you were in Boston."

Catherine looked down at him. "I get word that doctors are mysteriously disappearing at the hospital where my baby works and I'm going to remain on the other side of the country? I don't think so. Now what are you two talking about and what does it have to do with these other matters?"

Seeing no alternative, they made room for Catherine to join them at the table and Jackson found himself again describing the curse situation. Like April before her, Catherine listened intently without interrupting her son, only shaking her head occasionally as Jackson described his lapses of judgement with Lexie and Edwards.

When he was finished, she sat back in her chair and looked at Jackson with a disappointed expression. "Well, in light of your actions, it's very hard to dispute her conclusion."

"What?" April protested. "No, it's not. She doesn't know Jackson. All she knows is that he's made some poor choices. Who hasn't?"

Catherine turned to her. "Interesting thing for you to say, April. You haven't made those poor choices."

"I've made plenty of poor choices, believe me." April answered.

"Nothing like his." Catherine replied. "You're a virgin for Christsakes."

That silenced April, who subsided with an embarrassed expression on her face.

Jackson's initial expression of surprise quickly gave way to suspicion.

April turned towards him. "You told your mother I'm a virgin?" she asked in a small voice.

"No, April, I would never have done that. This isn't my mother." He turned back toward the other woman at the table. "Are you?" he demanded.

Her response was a quiet chuckle even as her features swam and rearranged themselves to become Desiree. "So here we are, where it all started."

"Oh my God!" April exclaimed.

Jackson looked at her and felt the fear rising up in his throat. He still had a week left to the curse. Desiree wasn't likely to make a mistake about that.

"Why are you here?" Jackson demanded of her, though he dreaded her answer.

"Don't you know? I'm here for her." Desiree answered, indicating April.

"For me?" asked April. "Why would you be interested in me?"

"Because, Sweetie, I know your feelings for him are more than just friendship, aren't they?"

"Don't answer that, April!" Jackson blurted urgently. "Don't tell her anything!"

April turned and looked at him.

He knew it didn't matter whether she said it or not, Desiree would know. There was only one hope.

"Then tell her. Tell her we're just friends. Tell her you could never feel something more for someone like me, someone so shallow, someone who could never care for you the way you deserve to be cared for." Jackson pleaded desperately. Please! Please!

But April just looked at him and he knew the truth as surely as Desiree did, and his hope died.

"And another one bites the dust." Desiree sighed. "So close to the deadline too. It's a shame really."

"No." Jackson said quietly.

"Excuse me?" she answered indignantly.

"No, not her, not April."

"Afraid you don't get to …"

Jackson cut her off. "Take me instead." he said quietly, never taking his eyes off April.

"What did you say?" asked Desiree, obviously surprised.

April was shaking her head. "No, Jackson…"

"Take me instead." Jackson repeated. "Turn me into a bedpan, or a colostomy bag or whatever. Do your worst. I deserve it. But leave April alone. I can't let you hurt her."

"Jackson?" April whispered.

"April, it will be okay. I can't let her … I just can't." He turned to Desiree. "Just give me one second..please"

"But.." April was about to protest.

"April, I need to tell you before I can't. I love you. I wish I'd told you sooner. But I need you to know that." Jackson turned back toward Desiree. "Okay, I'm ready."

Desiree hesitated a moment, a strange expression on her beautiful face, before she nodded and Jackson felt the world spin around him.

 

* * *

 

He wasn't sure where he expected to find himself when the world finished spinning but he definitely didn't expect to find himself in that very same bar, sitting on a barstool, one empty seat away from the person who had put the curse on him in the first place.

"What the hell…?"

Desiree looked at him and smiled. "Never thought I'd be saying this but, congratulations, you proved me wrong."

"You mean…?"

"Yes. You fell in honest to goodness love just in time to break the curse. So now all is back to the way it was before."

"So Lexie and Steph… and Mark?"

"Mark will be back from the restroom any second now." Desiree got up from her barstool. "Tell him I had somewhere else to be. You can also tell him he dodged a bullet today and should work it out with the woman he loves, before it's too late."

"Wait, what about April. Will she remember she loves me?"

"No, I'm afraid not. And as soon as I walk away you won't either. Everything is back to way it was before the curse." She saw the disappointment on Jackson's face. "Don't worry, Jackson. Just because it hasn't happened yet doesn't mean it won't. You're still the same people. And, I can say this since you'll forget it in a moment, I think the two of you are  _mint to be_. So you've got a lot to look forward to."

Desiree picked up her coat and turned to make her way toward the door. She stopped when Jackson called to her. "Hey, can you wait just a few more seconds?" he asked.

Desiree smiled at him. "Feels good to love someone so much, doesn't it?"

"Yes." Jackson answered, "Yes, it does."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was it for the second addition to the challenge. Thank you for making it this far you guys! Don't forget to leave a review, guessing the author and the animation movie this piece was based on. See you next Sunday :)


	4. Little Sleepy Snow Aprella's Genie in a Bottle

Now what was that thing again that the Grimm Boys always said? Oh yes... "You aint gonna believe this shit!" No, but seriously…

Yeah, yeah, I know it. What a way to start a story, huh? So extra. It's fine though. I got you.

Babe. I got you… Babe. Don't forget that Babe. Sonny didn't got his Cher, only to be dissed this way in fanfic.

So, like, we doin this now or what?

Damn right we are! You betcha. Forget ADD. No addictive drugs required. Perfectly Present without that Poison. Hyperactivity slowed to Good to Go. Naturally, of course. Au Revoir and Adieu Forever, Ritalin.

Daeeem son! Way to supersize that extra.

Say, wouldn't this be where the musical number intro made its play? No? Okay then. Whatevs. I still gots you, Babe. So.

Once Upon a Time…

Once Upon a Time, emerging from beneath a rock under a bridge, was a lurking Troll. A bitter, dim-witted, Vengeful, B-grade Television Show Producer, lying in wait to snare unsuspecting sunny dispositions.

Hold up. That's not how this story begins. Not with her. Let us rewind, okay? We need quiet please. Aaannd… from the top.

Take 2. With feeling.

Once Upon a Time, there was unleashed on an unwary fandom a horrendous, terrifying Tsunami in the form of a maliciously vindictive, putrid, biliously overflowing, ripe, spite and pus-filled arse boil.

Spite-filled abscess on the fandom's bum? Oh brother. Seriously? We still doin this? Well, I never... Forsooth, thou needest halt this onslaught forthwith! Advance tward conclusion, ye ol sluggard and swoon to thine arms o' Morpheus.

What the…? That doesn't even make sense. At the risk of not walkin the literary dinosaur but  _maybe_  havin to walk the plank, gotta say, Cap'n, not really feelin that iambic pentameter. So much ado bout nothin really. And please sir, I dint want some more.

Neveth-the-less… I see your Shakespeak and raise you a... Dickens, Guvnor? Wink wink.

Besides, who even would have sonnets at the ready for all those skimble-scamble nonsense moments, right? That would require some serious giveth up, alloweth down, runneth round and… caterwauling? Neveth gonna happn. Absent thyself of mendacity and sayeth not farewell, homeboy.

Indeed… hast thou been Rick-eth Rolled?

Yip. Yeah. Yea-eth?

Exclamation in old English, yeh? Heavy.

Aye, timeth be't to forgeteth that her already. And seriously… what's with malicious arse boil? How even would that work?

So then. Let's try this again, shall we?

From the conjoining of Montana Ice and New York Fire, Once Upon a Time, a kingdom was birthed. The Iron Throne was ruled with an Iron Fist. Encased in a stony Gauntlet it was wielded with the finesse of a mighty hammer. Infinitely. Then… madness ensued, havoc reigned and it all melted to hell in a hand basket. No, not by anything as cool as fire-breathing dragons, but... Wait, what do you mean it's the wrong song?

Aah so… Back to the drawing board…

Once Upon a Time, without incantation, spitting thrice and hawkin loogies,  _She_  materialized. A…

… Puffed up, arrogant, self-involved narcissist…

… Maleficent Megalomaniac…

… Faux Feminist…

… Selfish, psychotic, morally vacuous pond scum (or whatever the word for solo scum is)…

… Self-deluded psychopath…

… Disloyal, talentless hack…

… Squalid Egomaniac…

… Liar… thief… murderer of dreams…

… Bottom-feeding, parasitic leech…

… Genitalia bacteria (bacterium?)…

… Cruddy toe jam?

Right okay, I know it... Predictable, aren't I? I am inevitable! But enough about me. Frustrations sufficiently released now? Also, pond scum with no hidden depths, eh? Deep. Add to that those singular and plural hit and misses and you had the recipe for a righteously indignant 9-1-1 call to the Grammar Police.

Crime: Gross violation of writing etiquette. Sentence: Languishing in fanfiction pokey.

But really, who would even ever want to conform to the establishment? Gimme a Grammar Vigilante any day.

That last one though…

So, moving on from  _her_. Finally.

Reader are you ready? I bet you're gonna love this three thousand. So… Take... Three-two-one… and liftoff?

Once Upon a Time, in faraway LaLa Land there lived... yeah you got it... A Malevolent Monarch. She hadn't always been that way. What turned her from benign to unkind, you may ask? Well... Hell hath no fury, right?

But this is not her story, though she does play a part. You could even say she birthed this, moving along more than one path.

Wait! Don't go! I can tell that you are only interested in exceptionally rare chemistry. Yes, you are unfooled by commonplace, correct? Like so many things, it is not what is outside but what is inside that counts. This is no ordinary yarn. It is the unfolding of an alternating pattern knitted into the fabric of one person's life. Someone who's greater than what they seem... a diamond in the rough.

Perchance, has your interest been piqued? Or simple curiosity, maybe? Would you perhaps like to be regaled with this tale?

It begins on a dark, frosty night. Where a light-skinned dark man waits. Finding out how he's been duped by a nefariously dark purpose...

* * *

Evil Queen. Yep, that's exactly what she was. Also, his mother.

You'd think that the Heir to the Throne, recipient of one Fortune 500 and trustee to another, Prince of the Avery Dynasty, could command more deference than merely being seen as mommy's baby-boy boss stand-in. Especially when you considered that she was fond of saying, "Nepotism is for the weak." With tongue firmly in cheek coupled with a hint of self-deprecating humor, he fondly recalled that during his wild youth his birthday cards had always read some variation of that sentiment.

But no, that was no longer the case. Ever since Evil on Kr-ack had Kr-eeped into their lives, basic consideration had vanished. In actual fact, was painfully kicked out. Like a swift Boot up the Ass. Even a Shrek Posse and a Short Farquaad would have nothing on the Krusty Krustacean.

As she had slimily pulled a serpentine, slithering, s-s-sibilant Kaa-like entrance, elegance and class had been forcefully ejected. Unlike the reptiles seeming lack of a solid inner physical structure however, the Konstricting Viper was devious duplicity to the bone. Malicious. Venomous. Odious. And unquestionably Toxic. Physically manifesting as an eye-watering stench of a combined Professor Poopypants and Stinky Pete, she out-villained even the most noxious of Disney anti-heroes.

In this concrete Jungle Book, the emasculated ex-mighty lion  _did not_  sleep tonight. A-weema-weh.

Yep, not even the potential nip of a cat nap was likely as the high pitched, staccato "hee-hee-hee" of those whooping hyenas echoed with their cackling as they plotted to destroy every commendable aspect of his character.

The politics of these Enchanted Lands – Fairytale, Anime, Cartoon and Animation – aside, he craved just that one itty bitty, incy wincy, teeny tiny thing… jus a lil bit respect.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T… find out what it meant to him…

R-E-S-P-E-C-T, TCB... taking care of  _his_  business...

R-E-S-P-E-C-T… come on sock it to him, sock it to him, sock it to him, sock it to him…

Whoa, baby... just a little bit R-E-S-P-E-C-T…

That's all he was askin for.

Really... no beatin around the bush here. He  _was_  at the crux of this. Actually, this story was all about how his life got flipped, turned upside down. No chillin out, maxin, relaxin all cool. And no shootin some B-Ball, jus Med School. Interning, Resident-ing, Board Taking and Attending. When his kingdom he surveyed, this Fresh Prince was there. But with no throne to sit on, only Harper Avery's mangled chair.

Okay, so maybe his initial whine was exaggerated for effect. Regarding Catherine, at least. She was the most important relationship in his life and to her credit, she'd always had his best interests at heart. Until the advent of The Big Bad lead to her Evilution. Yes, she was Catherine The Great… Disappointment. She who had once been a force to be reckoned with had sold her soul to become the devil's plaything. Dismissively discarding honest regard, honor and integrity… while also eschewing credibility. She obviously balked at appreciating the hard won, much sought after and usually treasured prize that was R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Gave him pause to wonder if his new birthday cards would be switched around instead to read, "Nepotism is for the week."

Taking a paragraph out of Chuck Lorre's vanity card, he, like Chuck, took a moment to register his pre-outrage. His anticipatory disgust. Lorre and his own baselines being two totally different scenarios, of course, but tapping into the same energy. Therefore, he would also be aghast in advance. As well as attempting to get ahead of his inevitable indignation.

As the prophecy foretold, this fable had it all. Death, glory, folly, tragedy... all the four main mood groups.

Truli inescapable it was. A tale that had to be told. With deadline overexposed. And yes, many Procrastinator Club meetings postponed.

So it was written; so it be done.

It amazed him really, how talented his parent was at playing innocent. Right up to the moment when her betrayal was revealed. Coyness pumped up to the level of art form. He'd worked the case, so he knew. With her it was about a mirror having two faces. She held up the façade of openness and transparency but her reflection hid who she was inside. Hence, with her ass-backward ways showcased by a non-committal game face, accountability bounced off her thick hide like a ricocheting bullet.

"Why are you standing there with a face like I just kicked your dog?" was her surprise at his lack of discernible reaction at finally becoming privy to their agenda.

Well, he believed he was being circumspect, but she was onto him. She  _was_  his mother after all. And apparently he gave himself way too much credit. He really wasn't any good at hiding his emotions from her. Not even a smidge. Case in point, one permanently affixed scowl.

"It's just my face," he deflected. "And you know I don't have any pets, let alone a Dodi… err, Odi. Damn it, a Doogie, okay? Grr." Yowzer Howzer! How to not meet Neil Patrick Harris, am I rite?! Challenge accepted! Yeah no, he was just smurfin. He requested the highest of fives for that one alone. A double, actually. High ten? Yep, figurative up top times two. "Obviously I meant a Doggie," he tried, growling at her lifted brow. Clearly sarcastic.

"I tawt I taw a puddy tat!" she poked fun at him. "I did! I did taw a puddy tat!" she continued, Tweety-Bird mocking him.

"Vewy funny. Sylvester has fled the building," he lisped, pouting slightly.

"Don't you mean to say 'Elvis has left the building'?"

"I said what I said." So there. He  _had_  made a verbal play on that catchphrase, but he was not about to cop to it since firstly, she didn't get that the pun was intended and secondly, he was fed up with her constantly 'correcting' him. And her using Elvis, The Thief of Rock and Roll…? Now that was a low blow. He would never. Weelll... not directly anyway. Just forget what he'd said back there. She wouldn't get it anyhow, you know? If he was in therapy his psychiatrist would be having a field day with all these mommy issues.

"What about that Tomcat, O'Malley?"

"George? Or that Aristocatic Alley Cat… Abraham DeLacey Giuseppe Casey Thomas O'Malley?"

"Boy George, what a mouthful! Wait... Oh, okay, I got it. And what about that I-talian one? Did he explode? You  _do_  know your name is Jack, right? Not Jon."

It was a never-ending story. Yeah, he would not be turning around to look at what he couldn't see. All be it a whopper of a Hopper. It was likely Stranger Things anyway.

So he screwed up his already frowny face some more. This time in obvious irritation at her harping on about his unoriginality regarding naming things. Again. He'd heard the refrain ad nauseam.

Just you wait, he thought. He would call his prospective kids something wild. Not Hollywood cuckoo-bird on crack level crazy and absolutely no hint of Met Gala themed loony gaga in there. Also not something ludicrous enough for them to get beaten up in the school yard – if those still existed in his hypothetical children's future – but sufficient to be classified as unique ... original … meaningful. Like, err... Norbert for a son? And for a girl... maybe... Harriet? Or Vice-Versa.

No. C'mon now. Not as a name. Although... if it were twins... they would fit, yes? They  _did_  sorta rhyme, or at least go together... both began with the same letter...  _and_  they were gender neutral...?! His mom would have a field day with Vice and Versa.

Yeah, no. He would not be doing that to his progeny, the flesh of his loins. It would not be worth the satisfaction of one-upping his parent. Listen, they would already have to live with the Avery moniker and board meetings at fifteen. Sorry bout that, little buddies. Teenage buddies?

Speaking of apologies to his future kidos, he got serious and seriously melancholic. With perhaps a pinch of sentimentality and a dash of nostalgia thrown in for good measure. Aah those good ol days when youngsters weren't torn from the bosoms of their families and locked-up in enclosures.

He wondered if this currently ongoing trend of tossing children into concentration camp cages would become their norm. Could they themselves fall victim as in being separated from their parents, mentally and physically abused, denied safe and sanitary basic necessities, subjected to light and sound torture in rooms jam-packed to overcapacity, stripped of dignity and essentially treated worse than feral animals? And the other? If not literal casualties could they then, snug as bugs in their comfort zone rugs, lose their humanity by becoming unwittingly complicit witnesses to the atrocities while being unwilling and unable to do anything about it? The first, painful as it sounded, was a likely possibility since he himself was African American. A demographic proven to engender no loyalty in this country of his birth. The latter? Equally as painful to a parent, well, it didn't even bear thinking about.

Sadly, the child endangerment perpetrated by ICE and CBP weren't new and weren't restricted to the Trump era. As Attorney Ken White put it, "...it's a culture that encourages the abuse, legal apologists who defend it and a largely indifferent America who hasn't done a thing about it. A stain on America's soul." It was like man had regressed to the dark ages. Perhaps they all were simply characters living within the pages of a dystopian novel? Orwell's '1984' anyone?

The fount of information that was Twitter had even blessed them with this one. "Dear White People," Emilio Reyes tweeted, "It takes a lot of white privilege balls to stand on this stolen and occupied continent and complain about immigration."

Shrunken, shriveled, cowardly testicles most likely. The white balls, that is.

Whichever scenario you looked at now, something had to give and anything had to be done. Now not later. Or else there would be no later.

One behavioral mentality that  _this_  current administration was intent on indoctrinating its mass following with, was that ethos of the self. Lacking empathy, it promoted selfishness and dressed itself up as Nationalism. A patriotic hand on the privates, espousing individual promotion above all else. "Get Out" and "Go Home" becoming the Xenophobic Rhetoric of the day. Filtering down from the top, that mindset permeated everything. Even trickling to the trivialities of a television show. "Leave if you don't like it!" many echoed. "Change the channel," she dismissed. "Pack up, go home, you're through," he sang. "Don't let the door hit you in the ass," they mocked. On your way out being the implied directive.

Monopoly had a similar method of dealing. Their instruction being swift. As one rolled the dice and landed on... immediate, unhidden and what amounted to the antithesis of charming, racism. More like a 'No-Trespassing' elitism, actually. Or a snobbish, looking down noses gentrification, if one was being literal. And not forgetting peak capitalism too. It  _was_  Monopoly: the exclusive possession of it all.

"Do not pass GO! Do not collect $200," it screamed.

Just rude, if you asked him.

So back to his mom and their conversation. She was such a selective listener. She would do whatever she wanted, regardless. How the freck did she even know that Garfield owned a Jon, but not Garfield's name? Yeah, he knew it should be the other way around but anyone who ever watched or read animated Garfield – or lived with a feline – knew who was boss. Strange too that she hadn't used  _his_  full name in the comparison. It wouldn't have been hard – snort – to make the leap from Jack-son to Jon-son and in so doing create an environment rife for Jonson Jokes. She was his mother, true, but she was also a Doctor of Man-parts, who had no embarrassment filter. Aside from the mortification factor, she'd been a hoot, BC. Before Christ-a. More like Antichrist-a… AntiKrista? Antipasto? Dang, put a spoke in the food wheel too? At least it was no chore wheel. That he could do without.

He may have been Royalty but he was no spoilt brat. In point of fact Boarding School had taught him to value his independence. While chores were just that, he knew to pull his own weight. Like any adult would. He just wasn't enamored with the idea of a spinning, color-coded piece of cardboard standing guard over his actions. So, no chore wheel for him. No food wheel for that matter either. His tastebuds appreciated spontaneity.

The Boarding School experience was something he appreciated. It had taught him the value of character over things. He'd learnt that there were 10 things that money couldn't buy... Manners, Morals, Respect, Good Character, Common Sense, Trust, Patience, Class, Integrity and Love.

For now he chose to ignore his mom's nagging afterthought and simply answered her initial question. "Just because Garfield loved Lasagna it didn't make him Italian. Actually, G was continuously on a seafood diet. He…"

"…saw food and he would catch it," she interrupted, prematurely delivering and mangling the punchline. Much to his chagrin.

"Yeah… he would  _see_  food and  _eat_  it. No explosion though, aside from the farting. Sadly he reached the expiration date on all of his nine lives and bought the all you can eat buffet in the sky."

"Really, Jackson? Do we have to discuss your pet's digestive situation in such colorful terms?"

 _That's_  the part she chose to concentrate on? "You brought it up, Mother." Weird flex, but okay. "The release of intestinal gas caused an eruption of epic smelliness." Ba Dum Tsss. "Better? Or would you rather I said, he cut a stinky Trump with his not so silent, deadly flatulence?" Encore, Ba Dum Tsss. In conjunction with his own acoustical Ppppprrrrrrrrrrtttt… "Does that appease your delicate sensibilities, huh?"

Yeah it baffled him, this personality switch. Since when did she veer away from straight talk regarding bodily functions? And to the point of taking offence? This lobotomized character did not sit right with him. She was no longer the person he had grown up with. Honestly, that woman had been a lunatic, but in a good way.

"Ummhmm… what about your imaginary friend then?" she shot across his bow, giving him some major watering side-eye. Followed by a sternly rebuked, "Jatkthon!" Well as firm as she could sound with her right thumb and forefinger clamping her nostrils shut while her left hand swatted at the pungent air release.

"Still just my face."

Now wasn't that revealing? Not the farting, dude. The other.

Why he hadn't had pets for the longest time, or any type of Monster's Incorporated situation since he was two!

She really was  _that_  desperately clueless as to the man he'd become. Convenience was not a default mechanism for him. In any context. He would never ever succumb to an arranged marriage. To life without the possibility of parole... condemned to a loveless union. It may have been sappy and conventional, a youthful interpretation of romantic love, but he was grown enough to appreciate the notion of – and wise enough to hope for the prospect of – finding his soulmate.

In fact, if he loved someone he would tell them. Even if he was afraid that it was not the right thing. Even if he was scared that it would cause problems. Even if he feared that it would burn his life to the ground... he would speak it. Shout it loudly from the rafters … in a Church … maybe a barn … or even a non-denominational arbor. He would say it loud and go from there.

If he wanted to be dramatic and perhaps a tad flamboyant about it and provided that he knew it was a sentiment that was welcomed, he could possibly do a banner flyover. It would be the illest get... a hovering sky-writer hollering the love sonnet for him. Oomph… unless it coincided with a release of the snarling, nappy-wearing, orange Trump-Baby Blimp: Diaper Donald. That could be a major ops oopsie. Heck, even a wasteful 92 million dollar vainglorious military parade would do that. Which was a skosh – 20 million, give or take a mil – less of taxpayer dollars spent on the serial cheaters golf game. The Tanned Toupé sure could put a spanner in the works.

The tamer and much more delicious approach would be to spell it out on a cookie. This could earn him some prime brownie points. Who did not love dessert with a two-fold twist... hidden meaning and obvious sugar rush? Piece o' cake. Even if the aftereffects were a ballooned puffiness, continuous regurgitation (so... re regurgitation?) and much regret at the sweet overindulgence.

"So you had it, you had the dessert. And it's really good. I mean, it's an amazing dessert. It is—really good... for a moment. And then you get tired, and bloated, and gassy, and so so guilty..."

He could almost hear the pro v con argument. In quite the breathy undertone, no less. Sexy.

What about the possibility of hitting her up with a text? You know texting? Like using your phone but with words. Also pictures and... Minions? No. No, that wasn't right. Wait. It was on the tip of his tongue... Emojis! Of course. That's it! Like The Emoji Movie. How could he forget those? They reminded him of... something. Something slangy. Something that it seemed like he promoted. All. The. Time. But anyway  _that's_  the name he was looking for... Emoji: the shortened term for emoticons. He could be forgiven for the mistaken identity as both Minions and Emoji's were large, yellow and spoke in jibber-jabber gobbledygook.

The odd non-conformist emojis – eggplants and peaches – he needed to steer clear of. Unsuitable content; unfortunate message. Yeah, really. The text could be a pretext for dirtier things to come. With those pictograms, one would inadvertently be  _sexting,_  coz they  _certainly_  didn't mean anything as simple as liking fruit and vegetables. Heart emoji? More like face-palm. In fact those spank and tickle kinda texts would likely beg a slap or punch sticker in response. Now, he was not vegetable-phobic but given the rise in unsolicited aubergine prics, the time had come to take an upright stand. So obviously he meant pics. Clearly. Stay away from The Melanzane. It was problematic. No Brinjal allowed. Right. Got it. Check.

So sexting... err texting... with words, pictures… and ebrojis? Hah. Shush! One last quiet punt.

Maybe also three-dimensional moving Gifs preserved in ignominy and for posterity? And remember Gif is pronounced as it's spelt, with a G… G as in Graphics. Emojis though… nine in a row could paint quite the vivid picture. It would be emotions in High Def. Inside Out. So emo. That could work, yeah? Not to put too fine a point on it but he really did not subscribe to the belief that the ends justified the memes, you know. So it  _could_   _be_  a no mess no fuss declaration.

How bout a serendipitous musical serenade? Now whilst he wasn't The Rock or Lin Manuel, he couldn't be the worst, could he? Nah. He didn't need to have his very own Cyrano de Bergerac feeding him Poetry, Doo-Wop A-Cappella, Beatboxing, Vocal or Body Percussion... well any type of rendition that he could pretend play or learn in a quick beat. Like, he  _was_  American, right? In these evil climes and times it wasn't anything to be proud of, but yeah one thing that Americans had was the gift of the gab. Just check em out on sports statistics. They could gibble-gabble a person into a whirling vortex by spinning circles around them. To oblivion and beyond? Huah. His dizzying laugh lost to itself in the soundless void.

Perchance what was needed to pull this off would be to have a surprise advantage... his ace in the hole. Imani Coppola could surely do him a solid here. Like how bout that musical number of hers? The emoji one? Sure would strike the perfect note. "I give you a thumbs-up, a high-five. I got my deuces out… I got a big bright smile," she'd croon. "I feel alive. I occupy my space and activate my mind. I say aye what I wanna say. I got nothin in my way, hey," would be her raspy voice belting it out. Followed by the uplifting chorus, "Just feels good. Little peace o mind, not a cloud in the sky. Just feels good. Even the sunshine's feelin my vibe." And back to emojis… "I got sunglasses on my happy face, I feel a hundred percent up in this place. I give you a fist bump, say 'What's up?' A thumbs-up, high-five, peace sign, fat smile. I feel alive. Activate my mind…" Now if this didn't just turn a frown upside down and get those happy endorphins pumping, then his name was not Jatkthong Ovary.

He could perhaps also spice it up some with the language of love, no?

"Bone Jaw."

That's French for "Hello", uncultured heathen.

Flash-mob would be a non-starter, as that tended to put the recipient on the spot. There existed a fine line between embarrassment brought on by shyness and one that was the result of low-key, awkwardly forced acceptance.

Yeah… a guy needed to read the room… and the girl… and the situation.

Just between him and the lamppost, he'd always wanted to be part of a wedding that was broken up dramatically.

All in all, and method aside, he would declare it. Loud and Proud.

And that's the Gospel Truth.

Sure, he ran the risk of being Frozen. Of choking. Getting tongue-tied. Of course, there was a reason that could happen. Losing words because the stakes were so high. Having a fear of failing and of the failure itself... having much to lose. So petrified of saying too much or saying it wrong. When in actuality, the only wrong thing he could say was nothing at all.

He supposed that discernment was vital. While he'd felt that there was no way in the whole wide world that he would ever, ever, ever, he meant  _never_  kiss a frog – even if her man-catching Beignets were worthy of an adventurous trek through the Bayou – he'd had to rethink that rule. Considering his love of food, along with having a sophisticated palate, perhaps he  _should_ be smooching Cordon Bleu Rats and Frog Chefs. Mon Dieu! The way to his heart could possibly be down his gullet and through his stomach. Tickling his funny bone on the way as it registered that a rat had to teach white people how to season their food. Wild. Either way, one could never be melancholy feasting on the French Country Comfort of Ratatouille Niçoise or the hop, skip and a jump of Grenouille, which was a dish of butter sautéed amphibian legs.

Both his heart and his tummy would certainly revolt though without a dash of Cajun Hot Sauce to spice him up. Okay, not like  _that_. Of course he wasn't following a white rabbit down a hole, so he didn't need no 'Eat Me' cookies or 'Drink Me' cocktails to change his size. Man, that sounded like one giant risqué innuendo incorporated into a double double-entendre. But Mayfield in 22 could attest to the fact that tiny blue pills were not part of his prescribed diet. Also, enhancements not required. Yeah... so while eradicating perpetual flaccidity was not the endgame here, neither was it something he had ever had to worry about. Hence, no Viagra, no cry. No Viagra. No cry.

No Pot Brownies either. That was so... so meh. He preferred being high on life instead of the temporary haze of nothingness brought on by the use of recreational drugs. He saw no humor in it. What kind of screwed-up example would  _that_  be setting, right?

Green Eggs and Ham, however, were a right "No way, Jose" and Green Book Deep Southern Fried Chicken accompanied by an Oscar sized helping of White Savior, was a decisive, "Aw, Hell No!"

And never would he ever – not even in a million years – consider Krusty Krab's Krabby Patty with Americanized ketchup and a secret formula. It would be a cold day in Bikini Bottom. Now he had nothing against Sponge Bob, but Krusty Krab…? that was another story. The name and who it represented to him was a straight-up put-off.

Baozi, on the other hand, was something he could really get behind. Aah Bao: the super cute, precious Dumpling. Adorable as the steamed floury clump looked, it wasn't as if the Chinese delicacy was a literal child. Well he wouldn't be eating any figurative children either – okay, did Jelly Babies count? – but Bao, sans personality, was no problemo.

Besides, six-packs were passé anyway and Thicc was the new Black.

For now though…

Yep, he had been hustled, scammed, bamboozled, hoodwinked, lead astray … Crushed by a metaphorical boulder ... Cartoon dead.

Perhaps he should just relax and not do it, when he didn't want to go to it. Relax and not do it, when he wanted to suck it to it. Relax and... maybe do it? Particularly if there were laxatives involved. And especially after all that mish-mash of cuisines.

Or... possibly adopt a problem-free philosophy? Hakuna Matata.

Better yet he needed to hold out for a hero... a white knight on a fiery steed or was it a fiery knight on a white steed? Either way, she had to be strong, she had to be fast, fresh from the fight... and larger than life?

Anyway. To 'She who shall not be named', he inextricably became an exploitable meal ticket. One to be used. Seen as nothing more than brainless chiseled abs. A Dumbo jock. Although… not half as cute as the lovable pachyderm calf, who was sadistically big-ear-shamed and saddled with that ableist nickname by those leathery-skinned Kruellas. Thankfully, the DeVelle of  _his_  acquaintance would shrink away from wanting to make a coat out of his pelt.

Well... he hoped so. That she would shy away from using his body parts as accessories, that is. Not the other meaning, being that she would actually revel in skinning his behind. With having the boxed, compartmentalized and linear man brain that motivational speaker Mark Gungor explained all males had, somehow he sometimes still managed to confuse himself with the ambiguity of his words. Perhaps at those times that was when the empty box was in play. Check it out. "Afraid? Okay. Do it afraid." His neurons had certainly misfired that day. The response from his brain was... well... crickets? Even with brevity being the soul of wit, it was just crazy. Indeed, a Jiminy Cricket – the other green cicada-like insect, one that represented the conscience of inner consciousness – would be hard-pressed to inspire with just these five words.

On the other hand, "Less is more"  _was_  a succinct philosophy…

Back to the original thought though. She wouldn't take pleasure in flaying him… unless the barbaric practice of Big Game Hunting was a favored pastime. Which sounded plausible, coz really, a more toxic, fake-victimized, wrinkled old Goldilocks – dye description only, definitely not affectionate endearment – he had yet to come across.

Okay, yeah, that was not quite true. Try as one might it was hard to misremember the likes of Toyota Lasagna, Kellywise Clownway, Ditzy DeVex, Soulless Klan Colder and Istanka Tantrump. And of course, not to mention the WH Spokestoady herself: Smarmy Suckabee Slanders. But wait… it would be remiss to forget the cockroach from across the Pond, Kootie Looseskins.

And Dang, man. New ones seemed to be cropping into The View daily. Manic McStain, whose only claim to fame was the dubious accomplishment of being her father's daughter, and that DoJ Lawyer, Sorry Barfian – she who was decidedly unapologetic – came to mind. One could be forgiven for not recognizing that last one as her idiocy was only recently spotlighted. She was Sarah Fabian – real name – the woman arguing that detained children didn't need soap, toothbrushes or beds to be safe and sanitary. Yeah, that one. And no, she did not retract her words. So the coined 'Sorry' was more for her victims than anything she herself felt. She was a... Super Callous Fascist Racist Extreme Atrocious.

Indeed, a political slinging match had unearthed this jewel. "The entire Trump reign thus far is like turning over a log and watching maggots and other disgusting bugs crawl out." Truer larvae had never hatched on the decaying poop that currently nested in and around the White House. Actually, everywhere really. He was beset with the inescapable realization of the truly large number of awful people that existed in the Americas. "They walk among us." He pondered whether it would be outside the realm of possibility to metaphorically feast on those maggoty corpses? Of course, Timon and Pumba would party all night long.

Krypt Kreeper was thus in the stellar company of Blonde Bimbo-ness... and one mealy-mouthed Mushroom-Brown Dullard. Aside from that 'Eye of the Beholder' thing, it nonetheless proved the truth in the saying that while beauty is only skin-deep, ugly soaks through to the soul. Just ask lacking in decorum, HBCU leader disrespecting, Kellyanne Smellyfeet. As well as Fabless Fabian, the decidedly un-Fabulous Trump official attempting to overturn a humane ruling and have it be replaced by government sanctioned kidnap and child abuse.

If the Barfbarian tried to garner sympathy that would positively be a negatory. Sympathy was that word in the dictionary between shit and syphilis and she definitely didn't deserve to score a trifecta here. No sympathy for old women… specifically racist, old, white women. Not one iota.

The 'Killer of Truth, Justice and Good Taste' – aka KV – did also lend the appearance of being a card-carrying NRA member… someone who would have no qualms selfie-posing against the backdrop of a murdered Family of Bears adorning her walls or bumptiously lounging on a skinned trophy Lion decorating her floor.

With the added bonus picture of her lovingly stroking her instrument. Of course by that he meant the middle letter of the group she was likely a member of. R-R-R… Rat-a-bang-bang?

Showing off with the murdered carcasses – as a result copping to complicity in their deaths – while simultaneously provoking animal rights activists, she would effectively become an Eyesore Winnie The Poop.

She would most likely sneak up on little furries too. He could almost hear her approach. "Shhh. Be vewy quiet, I'm huntin wabbits."

Sufferin Succotash! Such scrim-scrams. Sure sounded surreal.

"You're desthpicable," would be an appropriate response. Another would be an instant fat lip.

Now this didn't mean that he advocated for violence, but sometimes a like offense called for a good defense, true? Like the English seemed to be doing lately by hurling milky beverages – an expensive endeavor that they felt was well worth the cost – at politicians. Or like a shoe chucking Iraqi Journalist did to the brainless boob that was Dub-yah Bush.

It amazed him, really, the short-term memories of mostly voting Americans or was it just that they couldn't see beyond their noses? Junior Bush certainly was a contender for the category of bamboozler in chief. For him twas probably like taking candy from a baby. Ironically, giving candy to a babe – specifically to Michelle Obama – was sufficient to cancel out remembrances of his warmongering.

Politics and hunting. Strange bedfellows, yet they went together like hand in a glove. The better analogy would be hand gleefully grabbing the genitals, he supposed. Or best yet, the hand not having relations with that woman.

The most privileged pedophile, Jeffrey Epstein, procured children for these sexual abusers in chief, yet no repercussions. Not even a decrease in popularity or following. Truly diseased minds. America these are who you choose to lead you? No surprise really when moral bankruptcy trickled down from the top. Then having that racist rotten head turning it around by mean tweeting The Four Strong Women? A weak attempt, no doubt, to deflect scrutiny from his immoral, illegal actions. Followed thereafter by a suicide in captivity? Now that wasn't suspicious at all, right? Epstein was probably just as surprised by his suicide.

Speaking of hunting. Reciprocity was the name of the game. Particularly when it wasn't hunger but sport that drove the agenda. So what was needed then was to put a rat-a-tat Tommy in Bugsy Bunny's hand and watch the show. Provided, of course, that nature anointed real life rabbits – as animators had done to Bugs – with opposable thumbs. How much, he wondered, would the hunter enjoy becoming the hunted?

Regardless of media portrayal of psychopaths with weapons as mentally ill lone wolves, he was of the opinion that a gun toting red-neck with a lisp was anything but adorable... Bunny exception notwithstanding. Mentally deranged, hate-mongering Terrorist would fit, though.

Jacinda Ardern would certainly concur. Despite playing into the stereotype, this kinda cinched it for him that non-blondes – brunette in this case – scored high on the intelligence meter. Not to mention them having courage, conviction, fortitude, poise, confidence and leadership skills. To name but a few of New Zealand PM's admirable traits.

"Eh, what's up, Doc?"

Now  _that_  was one classy broad. She walked the talk and put her money where her mouth was. An anomaly, true, for a politician but then humbleness beget a compassionate heart. Or was it the other way around? Still, either direction worked. Of course, she was also not American. So there was that. Added benefit, huh? She was knowledgeable but without having airs about it.

Unlike some people who got their medical degrees from Know-it-all University. They who took to doctor-splainin by telling actual qualified medical professionals how medicine worked. Their expertise and credentials being? Glad you asked. Why, writing for and acting on a made for television, medical soap-opera, duh. Ignorance of the highest order coupled with American hubris. So basically arrogance masquerading as unearned confidence.

If it was him, he would never even consider putting a life at risk by diagnosing based on his opinion only and with no medical knowledge to back it up. Especially if they looked to him in an emergency. Like say if during a commercial flight, a doctor was needed. No. Nope. Not happenin.

Irrespective of her proclivities and her politics – the her being referenced here was that evil ignoramus; the mother of all Blonde Jokes… although, to be fair, the other blonde halfwit buffoon could work too and no, it wasn't racist Linda Fibstein here –  _his_ body fur did not fit the criteria suitable for a Kruella coat construction. Truth be told, it would be a sparse harvest. But his mane?  _That_  was another story. Just call him Mufasa.

It really was a damn shame how he never could get the crackling timber of his voice to go Darth deep and drop to the likes of dulcet toned James Earl Jones. Now  _there_  was someone who knew how to keep it real... How to "Be a Man."

Like Thanos. Here was another deep throat who stirred up voice envy. Unpopular opinion, he knew, but if you removed his equal opportunity villainy, that alter ego wasn't so bad. Brolin had that sexy baritone down pat. So if the measure of a man was in his vocal cords, Thanos definitely was in the running to be real. And anyway that misogynistic, brooding, bad boy thing was so nineties. It was cancelled. Yep, this time like Lyin Linda. She was cancelled. Hmm... Okay, he understood the confusion. Flopstain wasn't a brooding bad boy, but he meant that her racist ass was cancelled too. Got it? Anyway, she would likely railroad to convict brooding bad boys for any crime, even those they did not commit. But only if they were the generally unaccepted skin color. See? Cancelled.

He supposed he could be real too. Not a Geppetto styled real boy, surely. Or rather not pre wish-fulfilment wooden boy. However much Blue Fairies preferred the wood. And don't call him Shirley.

Perhaps he could be a non gun-slinging desperado? A Despacito Desperado? Yeah, slowly slowly seemed to be the theme.

Listen, he was logical, objective and employed much common sense. The very definition of man, wouldn't you say? Even if social mores had figured out that men had weaponized those traits as an argument to use against women. "Don't be so emotional," was a favored put-down. Similar to calling someone "Snowflake". Which was a term, according to John Cleese, that sociopaths used in an attempt to discredit the notion of empathy. Speaking for himself, he took that kinda gaslighting seriously. Men who used emotion as a derogatory insult – yes, a clear grammatical redundancy, but that modification really lent itself to double emphasis, no? – lacked self-awareness and bordered on having a mansplaining persona.

But he was El Hombre, sí? Olé!

He definitely wasn't a cartoon caricature. So. He could be a MAN… Swift at going Dutch … Forceful at choosing a Bruce Willis movie … Strength of a Powerlifters Protein Shake … Mysterious as the dark side of a comb-over.

And you can bet he wouldn't be sharing his Nachos either. G – or even 3-Gs – could jus smell him later.

His matchmaker would have no shortage of recruits willing to pour him tea.

Not Jameela Jamil though. She had celebrity chasers on the run. Not unlike the diarrhea causing tea they promoted. She called out the Kardashians to own up to their irresponsible pouring of Detox Tea down the gullets of their impressionable following.

How do they do that, you may well ask?

The voodoo they do is to punt the unhealthy, rife with side-effects, Non-FDA approved laxative liquid drink – a product of prevalent diet culture – as an aesthetically appealing solution. Preying on insecurities and fear, JJ tweeted, they lined their pockets with the "… blood and diarrhea of these young women…" and in so doing pleased capitalistic patriarchy, by demonstrating no sense of dignity.

He admired her stance. JJ's. He would not be averse to her taking on the mantle of being his matchmaker, were she so inclined. She had firm convictions and was unafraid to put it out there. As SD – a friend of equal integrity – had motivated, "It takes a special conviction to decide to go against the crowd, to know what is right and to act upon it." They were very similar in that, these two. With Sarah perhaps displaying what writer Esme Mazzeo described as a quieter strength, a less flashy form of feminism. Less fleshy too.

This brought to mind another teachable moment. When Mo'Nique said to Steve Harvey as he interviewed her, "We've lost the Integrity, worrying about the Money," that hit home to him. Harvey's insinuation that she, Mo'Nique, should have placed coin over morality for the sake of her 'legacy' was disingenuous. Assigning fleeting success above a moral code, above integrity… one had already lost. And not only in reputation. Kanye West could certainly attest to the veracity of that argument. Rewriting history, selling-out friends or colleagues, minimizing oneself for the comfort of white people or political expediency. And not forgetting jumping onto the corrupt gravy train, tryna attain fame, prestige, recognition. It's as if their moral compasses true north was outa whack and the spinning dial led only to money, money and mo money… A steep Price Tag.

Jameela, Sarah, Mo'Nique… Now these were his type of role models. His favorites. Also, former schoolteacher, anti-racism activist, and educator known for her 'Blue eyes–Brown eyes' exercise: Jane Elliott. And not forgetting Beyoncé too, of course.

Speaking of... two people with life lesson messages related to Bey, had resonated with him.

When Célestine 'Tina' Knowles had tweeted her conversation with her daughter, fearing that, "… the predominately white audience at Coachella would be confused by all of the Black culture and Black college culture because it was something that they might not get," he was flabbergasted – and super impressed – by Beyoncé's brave response. Yeah, his gast had never been so flabbered. Sorry, inside joke. Carry On.

Ms. Knowles-Carter was purported to have said, "I have worked very hard to get to the point where I have a true voice. At this point in my life and my career I have a responsibility to do what's best for the world and not what is most popular."

Wooow! Iconic for a reason, not jus for a season, tru? And this here was why the Mayo Brigade was Copy Central. They tried it.

The second person was Lifestyle Influencer, Mattie James, of social media fame. She had articulated so profound a message that it begged to be disseminated far and wide. Even amongst the annals of Japril Fanfiction. She tweeted – and he substituted MJ's personal pronoun to be inclusive of all mankind, as was Bey's reach – that, "The genius of Beyoncé is that she is so excellent at being her that she doesn't make anyone want to be her – but instead the most excellent version of themselves. Her excellence while relentlessly persuasive is also intentionally permissive."

Brava Mattie, Brava. She hit that nail squarely on its head. If this didn't just sum up a strong, worthy of accolades, inspiring Boss Bey. She, who wasn't Bossy, but Boss. Yass Queen.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, you had the converse, Agolf Twitler type of leader.

And by ranch he meant the sea. And by sea he meant the little corner of his world.

The other? Well, that was self-explanatory.

So Yes, The Kraken had been released. A moderately unattractive succubus.

Since the Pirates franchise was a Disney brainchild, it stood to reason that a comparison to the fictitious sea monster would be apt, correct? Particularly pertinent with her name being what it was... Kr-Kr-Kraken. Dead-on. Even without the stuttering. As an aside, these giant squid jokes were Kraken him up!

Anyhow... they  _were_  still on the fantasy page, true? So although there was nothing pretend about her vile monstrousness, she  _did_  fit the definition of a text-book malignant Narcissist. One who seemed to have a kink for incestuous pairings. Which brought up the serious question, "Was her current spouse her sibling?" Yeah, mind blown. And not in a good way.

The demise of previous – at least four seasons back – illustrious prestige was orchestrated by her. The most Kr-ooked, Kr-aftiest, Kr-assest, unoriginal copier this side of the imaginary wall... the ultimate mustache-twirling cartoon villain: Knock-off Vernoff. Or as French entertainment media had taken to calling her, "Zee Geeannt Fhoto cupier."

He was actually shocked at her influence over every aspect of his existence. Shocked. And really shook.

The level of mediocrity jumped out at him. At a guess he would say that her advent onto the stage of his life was not meritocratic at all. She was wont to conflate her abilities and accomplishments way out of proportion. Every action an uncredited purloined idea. Appropriation without compensation.

It was entirely possible that she fell within the ranks of those unexceptional, white and wealthy with moderately famous parents and yet still unable to get into college without cheating.

If what all he'd heard about her past actions were true, then he knew he had a fight on his hands regarding his reputation. Her stratagem involved regressing nine years of character progression to where he became a caricature of class, taste and healthy, Black role-model potential. Her very own Krackson. Patent Pending by Kim K? Or did Kardashian just do that for cultures she could steal... like her copyrighting the Japanese word Kimono? Nevertheless, whichever white girl trademarked it – for all he cared, the KK's could duke it out for the rights – Krackson was not prize material at all.

Damn, he really needed to get to vanquishing this demon.

"Hello! My Name! Is Inigo Montoya! You Killed My Father! And married my Mother! Prepare! TO! DIE!"

Nah, he was jus foolin around. His father was still alive. Look, he was a Prince by birth but not yet a King by death. But, this here was some Hamlet level spoofing. Knock-off wouldn't be amused by him enacting this trope. Frankly, the memes were hilarious.

Be that as it may, Karma was a bitch. Giant Photocopier would get served what she deserved.

History was filled with people who chose to cause unbelievable carnage rather than consider the possibility that they had misjudged a situation.

Holding herself to a standard of grace was anathema to her. If only she would check her ego at the door she could come to a realization that would have countless benefits. Short, medium and long-term. She could get more mileage by treating her people with compassion rather than shamelessly stamping them with her own toxic misconceptions and hang ups. Seriously. Okay, yeah. Props to her for the "Seriously" revolution.

At any rate, as her racist, white supremacist sister-in-arms, Laura Ingraham, had condescended to the Great LeBron James – insulting LBJ as "A jumb dock who should just shut-up and dribble" – so too would KRumplesthinskin: The Malevolent Clown, if she could have, had  _him_  parading the hospital shirtless. With what he'd been reduced to he wouldn't be able to show his face – let alone anything else – to anyone, and much less to King James himself. Thus the possibility existed of reducing him to simply his looks. A-weema-wah, wah, waaaahhh...

Quite the IT affair, it was… all clowns and teeth. A scary Toy Story. With sequels. Also Sid. And highlighted by a Tuba crescendo. So Jaws too, maybe? Yes, and Sid. Or, since this was PG, Shark Tale? And of course, not forgetting Sid. Nope, never as easy as Finding that clownfish, eh? But Nemo's Darla was small fry compared to Sid… the neighborhood bully terrorizing Woody, Buzz and The Decapitated Barbies. These guyz really needed the skill, heart and substance of that medical pioneer, Doc McStuffins. She seemed the only one qualified and capable of reattaching the dismembered body parts of those guillotined gals. With her thingamabob that did the job. Bibbidi. Bobbidi. Boo.

See, when you did clownery, the clown came back to bite.

Any which way, there was blood in the water and the predators were circling…

The denizens of the sea though,  _and_  those of the jungle – urban and wild – had nothin on this duo. Their latest scheme was getting him hitched. To medical royalty, he assumed. He supposed that it went without saying that their list of potential suspects would not include anyone of the common variety of specialties, like say Trauma. Of course it wouldn't.

But he'd be damned if he would fall in line with their medieval thinking. So he would take a Brave stance – even if they were stressed tryna figure out his short hand AAVE brogue – and not be Frozen about the issue. He was not okay playing stoic. Strong, silent type was so not him. Alright, okay! That  _was_  him. But no longer. Hercules wasn't meant to be his nom-de-plume.

Like... people loved him because he had transcended his ego. He transcended egos better than anyone else. You would be hard-pressed to meet anyone who had transcended their ego better than him.

Self-fulfilling prophecy? Hah. Never.

Absurd contradiction? Always.

But Nah. Never say never. That's a paradox.

Anyway, he was jus messin.

This was obviously no mellow yellow Hercules or Zeus.

Also not Hades, the iridescent, cool, blue-flame headed Lord of the Underworld. Surprisingly, not even when the top of his head – the source of his power and pride – was snuffed out with a hearty blow… kinda like un-birthday candles being extinguished. Or an ice bucket challenge dousing.

The orange Orangutan though – with profuse apologies for the comparison to Mowgli's scat-singing King Louie; the association was simply superficial.

The Trumpism checked all the boxes… cadence, sentiment and obvious idiocy. Yeah, Drumph knew all the words. Just check out MoU!

As for himself, the ego riff was him quite clearly extending his middle finger in a language they would understand. Furthermore, the paradoxical statements tickled his funny bone. And since it referenced the maniacal Tangerine Troll, one  _could_  call them oxyMoronic.

Oh and if you were President Troglodyte... The A-Team's Mr. T pitied the President Fool who didn't know. "A Memorandum of Understanding  _is_  a contract, Chump." This could have easily come from him.

It was a certainty that Bosco Albert Baracus would not mince words. Though it was entirely possible that he could make minced meat outa them. He pitied the fools. Fact is, BA did not suffer fools gladly… or any other way.

Well, neither did he, and neither did people of discernment and character. Those with working brain cells, anyway. One such anonymous had explained the mindset quite succinctly and poetically, calling it 'A Narcissist's Prayer'. Another referred to the same as 'A Narcissist's Amnesia'. Both worked. It went like this. "That didn't happen. And if it did, it wasn't that bad. And if it was, that's not a big deal. And if it is, that's not my fault. And if it was, I didn't mean it. And if I did, you deserved it." Okay, so it wasn't a supplication in the literal sense but didn't it just totally epitomize Tronald Dump? Wasn't it about time to admit that this "Anyone can grow up to be President" thing had been taken just a bit too far…?

He supposed he should be grateful for the upbringing he'd had up to then. His Beauty had scored him no additional points. Not that he had a Chip on his tea-cup about it. For that reason, his hubris swerved dramatically away from the vicinity of the Beastly Gaston's. Outdistanced, he was, in the race for ultimate vainness. He may have been big and thick like Gaston but he was loath to advertise it in song.

Especially not at Eurovision. And not because he couldn't sing – well he hadn't cracked his glass shower doors yet – but for the simple reason that he was not complicit in art-washing Apartheid. Allowing Eurovision to be hosted on violently occupied Palestinian lands, rubber-stamped the wholesale massacre and attempted extermination of a Brown People. And those tryna still be relevant, self-congratulating, material-girl artists defiantly crossing the Boycott picket line…? they selfishly harmed the Palestinian Human Rights struggle. He stood with BDS in firm solidarity with the Palestinian People against the israeli occupying forces.

It really was funny – ironically, not in the ha-ha sense – that the genocidal invaders liked to pretend that they weren't a colonialist state on stolen land, but at the same time they participated in something called EUROvision.

In fact, Eurovision was nothing to sing about. And speaking of singing and dancing coupled with a cringy obsequious ass-kissing to colonial masters, how could one forget to remember Bollywood. It was almost beyond comprehension that Hitler's Aryan philosophy would have found a home in a 1.4 Billion strong, predominantly Brown inhabited land… Modi's India.

Yeah, he was being facetious. It wasn't Modi's anything. Like Kashmir too wasn't. What it was, was the height of irony really. That Netanyahu would not only be in bed with but so far up Modi's ass, as to burp a chapatti. When you considered that Modi's RSS Party was based on the same philosophy of ethnic cleansing perpetrated on the Jews, then this added a level of incredulity to an already inconceivable pairing. Was this a case of the enemy of my frenemy? Then throw in one grotesque, gleefully grinning MBS and the despicable despotic duo that was up to no good became the gruesome threesome. The triumvirate of evil... Benjamin Netanyahu, Narendra Modi and Mohammad Bin Salman. The three linchpins of death, destruction and genocide. Those whose very ideologies were not only at war with each other, but who were 'supposed' natural enemies because of it.

Their partnership was a clear indication that no moral imperative drove the agenda. Simply a hunger for power and glory. It would not be amiss for the average Joe to assume that this was satire. But no. Life happened to be stranger than fiction.

Aside from the politics of Euro-singing… Yes, he was clued up on the game and how to play it… he'd learnt from the best.

The student had become the master.

Besides, he knew when to Ham it up for the audience – with or without his ensemble crew of Mr. and Mrs. Potato Head – and his song and dance moves were sorely unappreciated by this crowd.

"I used to be addicted to the hokey pokey but I turned myself around," he lampooned. "If you can't beat em, join em, right?" Wait, no. This was not him being hypocritical… still no Eurovision. He was simply poking fun at himself here.

Yeah, so neither were his Cotton-Candy Pink Teddy-Bear Kicks acknowledged.  _That_  was not for public consumption. They weren't a bare necessity of life but he would give anything – even his sneaker collection – to have half of the freedom of life choices that Baloo The Bear did. His early childhood development had included lessons drilled into him that comfort over fashion PR would be very unbecoming of an Avery. Henceforward, he was required to fly under the radar.

In fact he harbored the fantasy of being whisked away by his very own Charming. Dr. Bones had even come up with a ditty that summed up the sneaker-fitting portion of the experience. It went something like this… "The tibia, fibula, femur and patella... if the shoe fits your metatarsals then you might be Zenderella… err Cinderella."

Snaps, Bones. Zendaya at the Met, Bones.

Maybe he should rather say "Props" to avoid confusion. Or better yet, "Dancing Phalanges, Bones?"

But as The Cheetah Girls explained, and he paraphrased, "It's not like he wanted to  _be_  like a Cinderella, sittin in a dark cold dusty cellar, waitin for somebody to come and set him free. To come and save him... take care of him. He'd rather rescue himself. Didn't want to be no-no-no one else. He would slay his own dragons, dream his own dreams, be his own knight in shining armor, setting himself free. He would find someone that wanted him... body, soul, heart and mind. And until he got himself ready, it would have to be an equal thing."

Hot take, yeah? His very own A-ha moment.

This clearly didn't have anything to do with magnanimity or having a savior complex. Not even him being a gallant Prince Valiant. He was a feminist.

Not like those newly minted, Faux News punted, Imperial Feminists who patted themselves on the back for having shattered the military industrial complexes warmonger glass ceiling. The co-opting of the term 'Feminist' was not only a ploy to appear woke but to deflect from their hidden agendas. Surprisingly, women too were complicit in the deception as they raced towards individual aggrandizement and in the process subverted the movement as a whole. A form of collective self-sabotage… if that made any sense.

As Lebanese American journalist and political activist Rania Khalek spelled it out, "It's feminism that celebrates exploitation… so long as a woman is in the driver's seat." She went on to untangle their deceptive, meant to bamboozle, tail wagging the dog. "It's super narcissistic and fake because it's just about putting women in charge of enforcing patriarchy, capitalism and empire," she reported. Adding, "It's one hundred percent performative with zero substance." And the great unthinking masses were falling for the subterfuge to the extent that any promotion of a woman was seen as a victory for feminism. Cough – Game of Thrones – Cough.

Not even getting into how patriarchy pitted women against each other with the victor cashing in on the spoils of war. Cha-ching. Everyone else simply collateral damage. Ba-Boom. They lived by the maxim of "There can be only one." And that lone survivor, she would throw anyone under the bus if it meant she got to keep her privilege package, which included  _all_  the coin. Ba-bling. Every cent of more than twenty million dollars a year. "Sharing is caring" and "Spread the wealth" would not fall in line with their phony, feigned feminist ideology. And hoarding that privilege meant more than equalizing pay parity. So there would be no reaching across the divide to help.

The crumbs from the table of white male America that they, white men, allowed to fall to the floor of what was essentially the unshattered glass ceiling for women, was simply to placate the few selfish-minded elite. Those not making waves. It was a Band-Aid solution for the larger, gaping, oozing, pussing, blood-driveling wound of misogyny.

 _His_  feminism on the other hand, may have been yesterday's worn-out brand, but he strongly believed that a woman's place was not the kitchen corner. And though many purported the presumption that feminism killed chivalry, like… no. No it didn't. It was being a warrior for women. Treating her with respect. Protecting her from blackguards. Unconditionally supporting her. Championing her agency over her own body. And going to bat for her, even if it required speaking truth to power.

This was not the time to go passive into the good fight. He would rage. Rage against the dying of the right.

But, from the perspective of the woman in question, her feminism required allies not rescuers. As the internet's mysterious bard Atticus had penned, "She wasn't looking for a knight she was looking for a sword."

Now apart from the servitude, evil step-siblings, cruel step-mother, having to live among ashes – or cinders, as the name suggested – as well as the non-rescuing, he wouldn't mind being a certain Charming's in name only Enchanted Cinderella… Ella… Ella… eh, eh, eh.

Neither would he discount the possibility of having a big green Shrek court his royal ass. Nope, he was definitely not fixated on societies generally accepted gender roles. Honestly, he wouldn't be opposed to a jousting tournament for his hand in dating. Let the games begin.

So… he wouldn't be disinclined towards Snow White either. He loved him some Apples. Not to mention that AppleJacks were a beloved cereal too. While he wasn't pure as freshly fallen snow, nor Apple-cheeked, he could pass muster in the looks department. In actuality many were the mirrors he'd come across who thought he was the prettiest of them all. Come to think of it he'd never met a mirror, iPhone forward-facing camera, Instastory capturer or automatic washroom hand-dryer – well any reflective surface really... or recording device – that he could pass up. They all were pretty complimentary, even when his fashion sense included floral arrangements of flaming cerise and violet (violent?) fluorescence. Fifty shades of... thirty percent of a Rainbow?

At least he wasn't all flash over substance. Or was he? The old Jackson Avery, no. Substance over flash, any day and everyday. Twice on Sundays.

The new and expensive JA? Yeah. He could definitely be improved upon. He'd fallen for the hype, blinded by the glitter. "Be and do better, Jackman!" he self-chastised.

He very much appreciated that he'd been gifted with the lightness of favored appearance, along with time to overcome the handicap that begged the preconceived trope of beauty without brains. Merci Beaucoup. The advantages he'd had, of light and time – à la Lumière et Cogsworth – as well as a never-ending spot of hot beverages. Not tea, mind you. 'Get Out' and Jameela Jamil had cured him of that.

Aah, though… the small pleasures. Thank Potts for that milk frothy thingie, as his fair trade, organic, locally sourced artisan coffee budget was… well, on a budget? So, homebrewed Café Lattés, Cappuccinos and Hugs-in-a-Mug were his new go-to thirst quenchers.

He did throw this out there though. "How much caffeine is poisonous? Asking for myself..."

What  _did_  cause him some consternation now, was the spotlight they placed on their arbitrary deadline of finding him a suitably pedigreed mate. Everyone and his sister was vying for his attention. In fact they could be lined up in Disney Princess Formation. Witches, Goblins and Ghouls too. Even a Shitbob Spraytan could make the cut. They weren't picky about appearance. It was all about the Benjamins, baby.

Thus, the uptick was them trying to rush him off his feet and through the swift hands of time. Like the anticipation of an exploding onomatopoeia. A ticking time bomb. Tick-tock, tick-tock... tock-tick?

It was a tale as old as time. Mother and Show Ruinner pressurizing future monarch into a forced chemistry-less matrimony.

Bad form. A recipe for ratings disasters. But, worst of all, it left every perceptive person – those of discerning moral fibre, hung-up on the injustice, as well as those simply upset at the studied careless classlessness – with a Gaggi of a sour taste in their mouths.

The only way his consent may have been possible was if they lobotomized him and threw in some amnesia on top of that. No. Not even then. He had to believe that some vestige of his true self would struggle through enough to protest.

Just thinking about it – like Activist Gabriela Fresquez's hot button issue of crippling college debt with a throw-in about Global Warming and state-sanctioned poisoned water – it also made him want to projectile vomit out of all seven holes in his face.

They could really miss him with their nauseating scheming. It would be no loss for him to bid farewell to it. Like, none at all. Buh bye Gaggi.

In this work of fiction, Mother definitely  _did not_  know best.

Mother would most likely also gaze askance at this one. "Love is like a fart. If you have to force it, it's probably shit." Someone should make them aware of this telling T-shirt philosophy.

In actuality, he felt dirty. Used. Like he was up for sale. A Lady and the Tramp state of affairs. Two guesses as to which descriptor he ascribed to himself. Hint, it had nothing to do with having a mincing, foppish gait. As to which member of the fairer sex they were looking to trade him off to… well that was anyone's bet. Another fine mess the Avery legacy had gotten him into.

At this rate there would be no, "...and they lived happily ever after" for him. They seemed intent on the more restrained formula of One Thousand and One Nights, "...and they lived happily until there came to them the One who Destroys all Happiness." Admittedly that was true of his existence upto now. Well, he had been content anyway, in his obliviousness of what they planned. You know what was said about ignorance, right? That it was bliss...

They weren't even shy about outright social media manipulation. Aided by the creation of bogus, homophobic, racist Twitter accounts. These highlighted their agenda with an unscrupulously choreographed Avatar creation and one clearly out of place trolling tweet meant to gaslight and maneuver their audience. An exercise engineered to jockey with ER over number superiority. With the added benefit of attempting to curry sympathy for their pretend victimization.

A vapidly contrived, truly villainous strategy, in point of fact. A conspiracy that played right into the PR. Orchestrating the narrative in such a way that those actually affected were required to go on the defensive over something they had no knowledge or control over. A non-physical assault on the reputation of an already exploited individual, by themselves no less. It was like steamrolling over and verbally attacking this somebody  _after_  they'd mentally raped her. Compounding the injustice by adding insult to injury. Re-victimizing their victim. It was not only a personal bombardment but an ambush too on those that rallied with her against discrimination and unfair dismissal.

And just to be clear to those American morons who were disseminating misinformation as fact – likely in a bid to justify their and their cronies criminal behavior – not only is 'consensual rape' not a thing but consent defies the very definition of rape. Merriam-Webster clearly delineated rape as: "…unlawful sexual activity and usually sexual intercourse carried out  _forcibly_  or under threat of injury against a person's will or with a person who is beneath a certain age or  _incapable of valid consent_  because of mental illness, mental deficiency, intoxication, unconsciousness, or deception." Hence, unable or incapable of giving informed consent. Says it all, doesn't it?

So. While he wasn't the epitome of a Pixar Anti-Princess in drag – or a Durag – he could out Drama Queen with the best of them. He was the Master of his fate, Captain of his soul, King of his own destiny. He was nobodies fool or anybodies plaything. Not even somebodies TV Bae – sheep sound, boyfriend or poop. He was the hero of his own story. Not the sidepiece to be manipulated and married off to their faux feminist ideal shero in shinning whatever.

With his skritch-scratch, tittle-tootle, gobble-gabble abilities, Dr. Seuss actually nailed it with this tagline formula. "Today you are you! That is truer than true! There is no one alive who is you-er than you!"

Alliteration acquired.

Reading Dr. Seuss in anticipation of his future heirs? You betcha that was his excuse. In actuality he was simply being theme compliant.

Unbeknownst to that diabolical duo of deplorables he had a magic ace up his sleeve. Armed with a figurative enchanted shield of virtue coupled with his mighty sword of truth – mind outta the gutter please – he knew that those weapons of righteousness would allow him to triumph over evil. Along with him being who he was, of course.

By the hair of his chinny chin chin, he vowed not to allow the sly old Fox – and her corrupting influence, the greedy Wolf in sheep's clothing – to huff and puff and blow his house down. Not for nothin, he was Jax... named after a Pig. Or was the Pig named after him?

* * *

"Scalpel."

"Ten blade."

She had the most wondrous doe eyes. He was mesmerized. Yep a goner as soon as he caught a glimpse, just a hint really, of what her smile would look like. And he absolutely needed to pull himself together. He was a double board certified Plastic Surgeon and ENT Specialist. An early start, surely, for this work-in-progress Master Liege and possible Medical Prodigy. New Amsterdam would have been lucky to have him. In his year, he'd been THE Resident. Couldn't classify himself as a Savant however, as The Good Doctor here possessed no neurological deficits. In fact he demonstrated fully functional mental abilities. Not that it was apparent at this moment in time.

He was a professional, damnit! Not someone easily distracted and never during such a delicate, ground-breaking procedure. Yet, here he stood, quaking. His heart in his guts – guts in his throat? – whatever the hell that stupid expression was.

"It's heart in your throat. You feel it in your gut, but your heart's in your throat."

A nervous giggle escaped him at her supposed non-sequitur, which response he tried hard to disguise as a manly guffaw. He hadn't realized that he'd spoken aloud. What a richness of embarrassment he'd heaped upon himself. He felt naked. Exposed. Mortified. His Emperor's New Clothes moment. The only consolation to counteract this court-jester-like impersonation was the fact that she had no clue that she was the muse who inspired his mixed metaphors.

Yeah, he wholeheartedly embraced the metaphor as his love language. You know what they said, right? "Unusual lies in the brain of the beholder." And who was this they, you ask? Why scientists who specialized in beholding things, of course.

"Oh!" Bambi-eyes further exclaimed. "Is that how you got the idea for this surgery, Dr. Avery? The patient becoming her own donor? Literally putting her own guts in her own throat? Still, not the expression. But a brilliant solution nevertheless."

"Uh, yes. Yes. That's right. You nailed it," he stuttered in explanation. Equating a more profound meaning to his words was fine with him. She could even call him a flower if she wanted to. He didn't mind. A rose by any other name would smell as sweet. And today was her lucky day… today her nose would smell sweetness as he hadn't forgotten deodorant.

At least he didn't freeze – himself or others; he was no Elsa. Neither did he totally choke. Okay, he would cop to getting a  _little_  tongue-tied. Simply uttering the gibberish syllable mating warble of an Ape-man as he swung from vine to vine. Yeah, it felt like his mind went from brilliant to blank in the space of a heartbeat. Now while you could prepare all you wanted, the feeling could still hit you out of nowhere. Like a Tarzan when he first came upon his Jane. With thunderous, echoing acoustics and a painfully released constipation… Ahhhhhhh... ahh..ah..ah... ah... ahhhhhhhhh...

So when it did hit, when his mind shut down, when he opened his mouth and no words came out, the good news he supposed, was that it happened to everyone. The bad news was that the timing always sucked.

This wasn't an isolated incident though, nor an unfairly brokered deal. No Trident-wielding Triton appropriating his thunder. No, c'mon now. Not  _that_  colloquialism.  _That_  referenced the malodorous olfactory reek that, like lightning following thunder, would accompany the expulsion of pungent gases from his backyard geyser down south. He recoiled – both physically and mentally – at the phantom odor that the very words conjured up. Ugh, nasty. A truly rank hallucination of a stinky stanky booty. Something that both John Legend and Adam Levine knew all too well, having coined the term "stinky booty" for a diaper ad or something. As for himself, he would definitely not be bringing  _that_  thunder.

Since his mother wasn't in his immediate vicinity, he didn't need to push any buttons or pull any reverse psychology moves but because this was all in his head anyway, he could say "Fart" if he wanted to. Even let one loose. However, he was classing up the joint. So, silently then. How bout, "Breaking wind by passing gas," huh? Covered both American and Brit elocution, dontcha think? What  _was_  this fascination with flatulence that Americans had, he wondered? Particularly so called television show producers. But anyway, the theft here was the power of speech. Specifically, the disappearance of his.

Alas, also not by a tentacled Ursula stealing his voice in exchange for metaphorical legs to stand up and man up for love. Or if not the big L, at least for a wild attraction. And not of the frivolous fly by night variety. That would be too easy. It had to be a cerebral as well as physical connection.

So No, of course it wasn't. It's not like he was some flame-haired ingénue. Yeah, he laid the blame for all these analogous comparisons solely at the feet of the young girl on his table.

In fact, checking up on his patient days before, he'd been an entertained eavesdropper to a melodious Under the Sea/Baby Shark mash-up. No Lip Sync Battling or dueling notes within auditory range. Perhaps some Flat G's (G-Flat's?) dropped here and there. Mostly though, a harmoniously blended duet of musical stylings. Quite the original interpretation it was. And faint though the youngsters voice had been by then, the enjoyment she experienced jumping into the chorus had been discernible to his listening ear as she doo doo doo doo doo doo-ed it up. They invariably had him believing that it was better down where it was wetter… Baby Shark Fam and all.

Considering the unceremonious turn his life had taken recently, it wouldn't be too far off the mark to say that he'd adopted a differing point of view regarding his existence on this planet. It was a no-brainer really, to espouse the belief that the seaweed always appeared greener in somebody else's lake.

Only one other could have pulled off this underwater medley with such panache, and that was none other than Horatio Thelonious Ignacious Crustaceous Sebastian. "Yah man, him haffi up luk dat Googlin." The crabby, cranky crab's full name, that is.

All these CR's – which had he been phonetically spelling could pass as KR's – were givin him ideas. But Sebastian was a good ol Caribbean Crab. The oceanic inhabitant not the genital one. He did not deserve the comparison to  _that_  louse …  _that_  parasitic infestation of nether regions …  _that_  Krab.

Before he could intrude to ascertain the identity of the mysterious singing Belle, he'd been paged. Swiveling his head to glance over his shoulder as he strode away, he'd spotted a white doctors coat topped by crimson hair, subdued into a stylish French braid. It was more an auburn-mahogany situation than a gingery-copper one. Still a little Red. And by that he meant… Tiny…? Petite…? Of short stature…? Vertically challenged…? Ah, he— err heck! Whatever the darn flipping tarnation the PC term was! She was a Little Red Riding Hood. He only wished he had the wherewithal to be her Big Bad Wolf while she appreciated all his… ehrm… expanding parts. Big head indeed. Eyebrow waggle à la Groucho Marx? Definitely no to catcalling or wolf-whistling. That was no way to compliment a woman. Dread was not a flattering look. For either of them. And yes, he was very aware that only respecting a woman he was attracted to, wasn't respecting women at all.

He knew he was an anomaly for knowing the exact shades of those hair colors, though. Be it dye job or DNA wrought. That's when the carpet matched the drapes. Just call him a Red aficionado. Or having a Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. No homo.

Having clearly just left the room, Red had walked in the opposite direction. Time and page notwithstanding, he would have loved to high-five the innovative Doc for getting a reaction, other than fear, from the little girl. She seemed to have the ability to motivate her to be all that she could be. No hang-ups. No racist ideology or physical limitations placing stumbling blocks in her path. Nothing stopping her from owning her density. Err, destiny. It  _was_  getting a bit pretentious in here, no? So much for all the exaggerated hyperbole with no follow through. And pumping the kid for info after – something he wasn't too proud of but which he'd justified as attempting to get her to exercise those vocal cords – he'd scored a whispered name.

"Ariel," he sighed to himself.

"Hmm, what? Excuse me… did you say something Dr. Avery?"

"No, nope. Nothing. Just admiring your technique," he replied to the accompaniment of acoustical sniggering. Bokhee was not subtle.

And it's not like he lied. He meant every word. Just left out all her other attributes he appreciated too.

Truth be told Ariel was a strong contender. He had a silent conversation with her where he revealed that detail. Her responses he tailored from what he'd learnt about her and the little bit he knew about women. Understandably he hadn't cracked the women code... yet? Eternal optimism thy name is Avery. But this entire parody was a light-hearted production.

"You're on my list," he would say.

"It's an honor to simply be nominated," she would reply.

"And lemme tell you I was hypervigilant over which candidates made the cut. List violators are being held in very low esteem. But you... you are top dog, middle seat at the partially inclusive, affirmative, no-longer-so-white Oscars. Fact. Not Opinion." Yeah, he was a kiss-ass... wait, did that garner the same results that being a kick-ass did? At least he was not unmindful.

"I'm easy like that. Easy like Sunday morning. Actually, I just like the seating arrangement," would be her taking the Mickey out of him. Could be Minnie too. Or even Mighty. With hard work – and a little bit of luck – she could take out any Clubhouse Mouse she wanted to.

After her introduction into his life, his imagination was on fire. So this was really a spoof of non-existent teasing banter expressed in a mock serious manner.

He had gotten an up close and personal view – aerial, really – of Ariel's Mermaid encased bootyliciousness. Quite the badonkadonk. Though not really so thicc. But curvy. Her assets weren't as obvious as say… Jessica Rabbit… but the reaction she engendered was va-va-va-vroom spot-on. Certainly got his motor running. It became apparent why Roger Rabbit needed to be framed. Eliminate the competition, duh.

Hmmm… something to consider. Particularly about that Paramedic he'd noticed who'd taken to sniffing and trailing after her like a lost puppy… or like a down-on-his-luck private eye, drooling over the target of his surveillance… or even like a slimy henchman with nefarious intentions. The Paramedic, not him!

He was very careful about not allowing any of his own appreciative slobber to escape his mouth. It would not do to have it raining man spit. Hallelujah. How unattractive would it be to get absolutely saliva soaking wet? Amen.

How did he know it was her, a person may have been tempted to wonder? The fish braided fiery locks were a dead giveaway. And the overheard conversation? Why it couldn't have been clearer had a costumed Sturgeon serenaded a Surgeon right in front of him. The singing telegram accompanied by an unforgettable instrument, of course: the strumming ukulele. Yeehaw.

"Is that a..."

He'd recognized the intern by her high-pitched nasal twang. She was… Dr. Willis? No, no, it was Milton… or was it Witten? Watson, maybe? Actually, that was close but no cigar. If Watson was it then the beautifully fascinating companion with her would be none other than Sherlock Gnome. Which, he supposed, was an entirely plausible premise as the presence of beauty did not preclude the existence of an analytical mind. And Sherlock did possess a Beautiful Mind. Not that Watson appeared too bright though... or could hold a candle to the redhead. In either sphere. Which thus proved the converse too. Brainy did not beget ugly. Elementary, dear Watson. But wait… he got it! She was Intern Wilson. Not Watson but she still needed to investigate. Chop-Chop.

"Swimsuit? Yeah. Racerback. I ran out of underwear."

Now this caught his attention. And his libido. He was intrigued enough to not interrupt. But nothing could stop his imagination from going straight to Commando.

"I'm not understanding..." Wilson was confused.

He was simply curious and getting more curious by the second. Curiouser and curiouser…

"You don't wear swimsuits when you run out of clean underwear?"

Aah, so that's where this was going. Easy solve, hey.

"I don't run out of clean underwear."

"You're an intern, when do you have time to do laundry?"

"I'm a doctor, I send it out."

"Umhpf..."

Enlightenment dawned. But still not a full frontal acquaintance.

This Gnomeo would have to 'Wherefore art thou' his Juliet another time.

To be perfectly frank, he was embarrassed at un-remembering the intern. Though it wasn't aloud but just in his mind. He  _did_  have more than two brain cells to rub together and thankfully a cure for his foot in mouth condition, which symptoms ironically manifested as some serious verbal diarrhea. He was also extremely well endowed – uhh yeah, obviously mentally too – so he picked up complicated medical jargon fairly quickly. Not with a snap of his fingers, but close enough. And though he was not into that whole crossword puzzle scene, medical journals kept his mind agile. So this inattention smacked of arrogance. Conceit. A sense of entitlement. Of not taking enough care to, at the least, try and recall someone's name. Their very identity. For a doctor training facility, this was bad practice. Could lead to poor bedside manner being the message promulgated. Not to mention it lacked common courtesy. So rude. Who even did that?!

Which brought them full circle to this surgery. Whose brilliant idea was it anyway, to allow the surgical interns, residents and attendings from other specialties – everyone, really – a front-row seat to this reconstruction? Alright, so this was a teaching hospital. But. Protocol dictated a gallery viewing and webcast. Which, undoubtedly, contrasted majorly with an in your face, though sterile gloved and masked, live audience.

The twittering in the background was annoying. As was Webber's teetering. And disturbing. The chirping of mobiles almost had him expecting the room to break out into song. Tweet tweet. To distract himself from the disruptions, he initially went with tunnel vision. However,  _that_  was a bust and almost proved fatal when he seemed to get lost in the depths of the expressive eyes across from him. Eye contact was so like... private and intimate. Almost intrusive, gazing into someone's soul. To counteract this invasion what he did next was explanation of the process that got them to performing this particular procedure. It was tough going, tryna speak around the attempted voice-overs. They weren't helpful at all. But, for a minute there, he was able to drown out the shrill cicada-like buzzing.

"So, the patient…"

"Asha."

"… is from Africa," he ended up speaking over her interruption. "Oh… are you familiar with the exigent circumstances surrounding Asha's arrival in the US, Dr…?" he prompted, hoping to find out her name.

Admittedly he'd been distracted and rightfully pissed off at Dr. Robbins and Dr. Hunt for intervening – he could be, and most assuredly was in this instance, an equal opportunity asshole – but he could swear that neither one had mentioned this gazelle-eyed doctor's name.

Actually, if you considered that it was an unspoken but widely known fact that Robbins came with two additional votes – Torres and Karev – then the intervention became an ambush. Hunt had pushed for his choice like a kindly mentor, or considering that he was supposed to be the Trauma Surgeon on call to assist, it was more like a Fairy Job Mother magically bestowing super scalpel wielding proficiency... and a seat at the table. The guy had even mumbled something to her about "Being a soldier." It was a strange mantra but he seemed pacified when she repeated it back to him. And yeah,  _he_  still had no idea what it meant. Had she literally been a soldier in the army or was this simply a figurative expression meant to convey strength in stoicism?

After using the emergency excuse to promote his choice, thereby pulling a disappearing act, the previously AWOL Hunt-man now seemed to have reappeared up in the gallery, observing. Which was where everybody else not directly involved in the surgery needed to be too! Hunt looked to be watching both the surgery and the clock. In quite a reversal of his normal military bearing, he hunched over like a hovering Quasimodo witnessing the Notre Dame burn, while seemingly intent on getting his charge gone before a reflection of the digital time-piece flashed a scarlet 12 onto his forehead. Although, if one was looking at time then 6.30 was the best time on the clock, hands down. It was crazy the way he was pushing it. As if she would turn into a blithering, incompetent hack at pumpkin-o-clock. Or a 'Not a soldier.'

He knew the show had to go on. But he was of the firm opinion that one person could make a difference too. A diamond in the rough. Nuff said.

Speaking of that Cathedral, he realized what a sad, crazy world humans inhabited. Where caring for a pile of rocks with a bit of history attached to it, outweighed human life. In a span of hours, Go-fund-me's for Humpty Trumpty's Wall and repairs to Notre Dame, raked in billions. Thus attesting to the empathic emptiness of man. On the one hand you had a young white boy manning a lemonade stand to help pay for a wall to keep people in need out. On the other, a young black child using his allowance to buy meals for the homeless. Now, which story do  _you_  suppose the media touted as the feel good story of its time? And not even getting into how the learned racism was hyped as actual Christian values.

While London Bridge was not falling down, Grenfell Tower certainly had gone up in flames. So where was the moral outrage and money for victims of  _that_  Towering Inferno, huh? For Historical Black Churches burnt? And where was the media and concurrent outrage when Jerusalem's Al-Aqsa Mosque was on fire almost simultaneously with Paris? Burying truth and concocting diluted terminology to make their web of lies seem palatable, that's where. Alternative Facts. Fake News. What even were these self-contradictory oxymora?

What a topsy turvy world, man! Up becoming down, right being wrongfully shamed and wrong twisted into right-seeming. Humanity appeared to be surviving on pure luck.

From Notre Dame's Hunchback to Seattle Grace's Hunt back at it. Observation, that is.

"Oh yes, of course, Dr. A. Asha is the final participant from Dr. Karev's group of children brought over from the African continent. She's six. From Kenya, I believe. She sustained injuries two years ago from an IED. The wounds in her throat never healed properly, resulting in scarring and ultimately tumors on her vocal cords. And yet even with all these disadvantages, she's a natural operatic prodigy. That voice... Just wow! She's like a mini Ariel in fact, hitting all those high notes. But now she's at risk of losing her voice completely. Poor little lass. She's just a wee bairn still."

What? Where did the Irish come from? Or was it Scottish? He never could distinguish between them. In fact, she could be a Merida for all he knew, but for one tiny detail. He understood her when she spoke. It wasn't all Gaelic to him. "Ummhmm. Decent presentation and comprehensive background research into our patient." He let the accent go, though. Anyway, seemed like she'd been called up to bat, to pinch hit, before. But what was all that about Ariel? Their patient's name was Asha, right? Quite the co-incidence, this Ariel mention. Could he have misunderstood before? Had the Ariel in the hospital room from before been encouraging Asha to believe that she could be an Ariel too? Was Ariel even that  _hers_  real name? Boy, was he confused. Would the real Ariel please stand up? Or rather swim up? Mermaid ... tail ... no legs ... duh! So anyway what was all this hoopla about Ariels anyhow, huh? It was just getting ridiculous. Assigning whiteness to space aliens and mermaids was the ultimate racism. Of course anyone could be an Ariel. And if the requirement was red hair and a tail, then so be it. It could be done. Just slap on some crimson locks and fish nets, add some water and voilà. Sorted. Instant mermaid. Yeah, but his mind was still befuddled about  _these_  Ariels. He didn't let on though, about the tangent that his man-brain had woven. Oh, what a Tangled web. "Good. That's good. However, you should consider maintaining a professional distance."

"I know. But she doesn't have anyone else. Besides, she's so little and yet she's been through so much already."

"You know none of us are born strong. Life polishes, refines and strengthens us after many repetitive blows. She'll have to be patient, for there is no strength without pain." He knew it sounded cold. Unemotional. Like he was pontificating. So he toned it down. "Patience," he advised. "There's a lesson to be had here for all of us."

"Yeah Doc, I understand what you're sayin. On the other hand... no man is an island. Now I may not be the daughter of the Chief, but it calls me." What the what? Oh… "Is it not incumbent on me to lend a helping hand to anyone in need? Aren't we all inhabitants of this same tiny third rock from the Sun? Members of this vast human race. Are we not all our brothers' keepers? An injustice to one would be an injustice to all."

"I'm not really into all that religious stuff..."

"Oh, c'mon. That's not religion. That's common sense and common human decency."

"If only common sense was more common, am I rite?" It's a good thing he went with that, instead of what he almost joked... that he didn't have any brothers. Of course he knew she meant it in a broader sense. Likened to everyone being a member of The Global Village. Unlike many confused people he knew the difference between immediate – related by blood and marriage – family and what was close enough ties as to be considered relations, but in actuality wasn't. Like a sisters sister-in-law being considered a sister yet an honest to goodness step-bro becoming a non-relation. That kinda lack of consistency was jarring.

And yeah, it took him a second but he got the amusing Moana wordplay too. Funny Girl.

She in turn (in resident?) laughed at his common sense jest. It gave him a leg up. Seems she was drawn to humor, not to any wise Yoda-like astuteness.

"Absolutely right you are, Dr. Avery."

"And  _you're_  right about the details of our young patient's condition. Asha... uhrm, Ariel…?"

"Asha."

"Right. So, Asha here presented with a Throat Tumor. Due to extensive esophageal invasion, a Laryngectomy was ruled out. Our best bet was a Throat Transplant and it seemed like we got lucky with a type match. But then…"

"Lesions on the donor's throat, meant the transplant was no longer an option. So what did you do next? How'd you get from a scrapped transplant to here? Couldn't you do a stage procedure, excise the tumor and wait on another transplant donor?"

"Wouldn't work as she'd need a course of radiation which would make her a bad surgical candidate. And time was of the essence."

"What about a temporary stent?"

"Erosion and bleeding."

"So rather than a partial Laryngectomy you decided instead to construct a whole new, organic, larynx?"

"Well, it's better than her having to lose her voice, don't you think so Dr…?"

"Making new vocal cords out of her own ileocecal valve and appendix? Genius! The ileocecal  _is_  a sphincter muscle valve that separates the small and large intestine. And the appendix? Not just an appendage, you found a useful function! Double whoop!"

"Yes. Guts in her throat. Right, Dr…?"

"Using Asha's intestine and appendix to build her a new larynx…? That's just so… so badass!"

He had to laugh at her enthusiasm, even though, once again, he was diverted from finding out her name. Her perky manner was contagious. If they weren't knee deep in neck and guts, they would be fist-bumping right then. Woohoo.

And he just had to mess it up. "No guts, no glory, hey?"

"A funny, clever expression, true. Big picture, however... I am a bit sceptical about reliance on gut being simply about feelin it, you know? There's no tangible evidence to support the hypothesis. Studies actually show that gut instincts are merely highly developed observational powers, so it's probably your eyes more than your gut. That would make it counterintuitive, no? Also… Fame and glory? Not why we do this, right? "

Oh-kaay. He really had to watch his step with this one. And up his game. She had him between a rock and a hard place. Rock hard, eh? Her effect on him was nasty. And earthy. And erotic. But she also stimulated his cerebrum. She seemed to argue both sides of a point. Must have been great at debate, being able to see eight sides to every situation. Her sharp mind had to be on the go all the time. Sounded exhausting. But oh so invigorating. Almost like the exhilaration experienced on a free-falling carnival ride. Weeeeee...

~~**J—A** ~~

"You can call me Al."

Just when he thought he wasn't getting anywhere. Too subtle, perhaps? "If you'll be my bodyguard I can be your long lost pal? That Al?"

"Sure thing. Wouldn't want you to end up a cartoon in a cartoon graveyard, now would we?" she teased. "I can call you Betty and Betty when you call me, you can call me Al..."

Okay he knew this one but the crowd was getting antsy so he had to transition to the animated portion of the tale. "So Al, will you show me a whole new world on your magic carpet ride?"

"Ooh, so now you're Hot Princess Jasmine to my Prince…?" She didn't skip a beat, immediately knew where he was going with this.

"Ali Abooboo? I see you got cute and dropped by?" Yep, as he'd said before, he had no problem with gender role reversals. It was a social construct anyway. And really on a scale of Snow White to Merida, Jasmine appeared smack dab in the middle, representing as Disney's first Princess of Color. So that worked for him. And then too their names. Jack-son… Jas-mine. Why they could be twins! Obviously nothing as fantastical (Fantasia-cal?) as Vice and Versa, but close enough. Secondly, their looks were nothing to sneer at – I mean she'd called him 'hot' – and both of them were also descendant from wealthy, royal bloodlines. But the real kicker here was the parental pressure that both were under to make politically expedient and socially congruent matrimonial choices.

"Funny, Betty, totes funny. Am I Aladdin in disguise? Your pal Al? Or...?"

"Or?"

"Make a new plan, Stan?"

She was quick on her feet, he had to admit. And thoroughly amused by her droll wit. "You're definitely not CDO, I'll give you that."

"CDO?" Forget Mic drop, this pitch spelled ascending confusion.

"OCD, but with the letters in the correct order. As they should be! Umm, don't you think so...?"

She giggled. "Au contraire, mon ami. It's order of importance to  _you_. That's the true compulsion."

"In that case, you missed out the main one."

"You got it! No need to be coy, Roy, just listen to me."

"Hah." He let out an entertained snort. It was the best he could do, considering she couldn't see much of his expression. His lopsided grin though, was in play.

"Hop on the bus, Gus, don't need to discuss much. Just drop off the key, Lee, and get yourself free..."

"Bum-bum-bum... Unh, Ka-BOOM, BZZURKK... Fifty ways to leave your lover. Wow. Quite the pick there, Ali." He was charmed. And yet there was something so familiar as she softly sang this chorus to him, which he accompanied with some drum and tambourine sound effects. His acoustics nowhere near her vocal reach.

"Okay, okay, I got you. The main one you said, huh? Just slip out the back,  _Jack_ …" she emphasized the last for him.

He restrained himself. It's amazing how swiftly his mind went to salacious with her. "Yeah, yeah, you got me, Simon."

"That's Mr. Simon to you, Artfunky," she glanced up at him for a quick wink.

"Oh, he—ck no! Believe me, you do not wanna go there. I'm okay in the shower but anywhere else? Nope. In fact when I sing, I get winces in supplication. For me to stop. And the sounds of silence. Before you say it," he continued, noticing her motion of attempted interruption, but not giving her the chance, "it's not an appreciative silence. Art Garfunkel would be rolling in his grave if he heard me. Wait... is he dead?"

"Melodramatic much?"

"Hello Darkness, my old friend."

"Such a Drama Queen. So, Doc…"

"You can call me Jackson, by the way. Or Prince…"

"You got it, Purple Rain.  _Ja_ -smine, it is. But, hey, let's keep it work related, okay? Don't wanna be disrespectful. Or unprofessional."

Like this entire exchange wasn't?! "Whatever you say, Dr. Al. So… I don't mind being Jasmine, even though Genie is more my speed, but you know, I have the magic carpet, right? Phenomenal cosmic speed... Itty bitty time travelling machine."

"Wait, what? You have a time travelling machine?"

"If you consider almost instantaneous worldwide travel that doesn't involve orbing... has sleek lines... a roomy interior..."

"Yeah...?"

"Unbelievable sights? The indescribable feeling of soaring, tumbling, freewheeling through an endless diamond sky...?"

"So poetic. Wait… does this mean… You have a Private Plane?!"

"Well, technically it's the Foundations. So yeah, my families, basically. But let's just keep that on the DL, okay Al? Otherwise, all these freeloaders will be wanting to bum rides on the Avery Jet."

"I feel sick... you have a Jet..."

"Look on the bright side. With the Avery Magic Carpet I could show you the world's etchings. A shinning, shimmering splendor."

"Van Gogh's 'Starry Night', huh?"

"No… mother nature's. The real thing. From atop The Pyramids of Egypt, or in front of The Taj Mahal. The Eiffel Tower … Great Wall of China … The Sydney Opera House ..."

"Err, those are all man-made, not natural. Although there exists some mystery over how ancient civilizations created the Pyramids. Even with today's technological advancements, the construction stumps architects, scientists and engineers alike. Infact there's a working theory that is based on the presumption of other intelligent life out there in the universe creating these wonders."

Well hit him with Jeopardy facts why don'tcha? "To infinity and beyond, hey?"

"Hmph," she expelled a reciprocal snort of amusement, mimicking his earlier expulsion of breath. "Well, there seems to be no sign of intelligent life anywhere on  _this_  planet. I mean, Donald Trump…"

"I think you mean President Pussy Ass Bitch. We do not use his real name. Whenever someone does, an angel loses its wings."

“Language, Jackman!”

“Hey take it up with Chrissy and The Legend. Infact they both asked Twitter-verse to not trend the hashtag,” he winked.

“#PresidentPussyAssBitch, eh? Sounds about right,” she sputtered, laughing.

"So I guess I could show you The Seven Wonders of The World, updated addition. Before the Orange Twitwit torpedoes it all."

"Right. I'm not just a friend but a fan of the number seven, natural phenomena and well, who doesn't love this planet, huh?"

"Lucky seven," he mumbled under his breath. Much louder he responded to her question, knowing it had been rhetorical. "The Screaming Carrot Drump-kopfh and one percenters?"

"Can- _not_  disagree there. Carl Sagan has famously warned us to cherish this pale blue dot. It's the only home we've ever known, he's said. A mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam. He downright got poetic about the whole thing. Also called Earth a small stage in a vast arena, a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark. And though climate change deniers would disagree, I think he was right as rain. Don't you think so?"

"Carl was The Man. And so is Neil deGrasse Tyson… the New Man about town. Now  _that_  astrophysicist…? he does not suffer fools gladly."

"Yeah. He's witty. And brilliant. So much so that I think his tweets fly over many heads without sinking in."

"Good way of putting it. Err, how did we get here?"

"Seven wonders. Speaking of… tell me what do  _you_  consider as wondrous, Doc?"

Wait, was she chatting him up? He wanted to answer with the dancing sparkle of her eyes. The hint of a dimple he was sure her surgical mask concealed. Her melodious laugh. Her big brain which allowed her mouth to spill knowledge lickety split and on a wide variety of subjects. Her talented singing voice. And most of all, her soft heart.

But he didn't want to scare her off the bat. And he wasn't sure about the flirting. So he went with conventional. "The new seven wonders of the world are certainly impressive. You've got The Great Wall of China near Beijing. Chichén Itzá, a Mayan city on the Yucatán Peninsula, in Méjico. The ancient lost city of Petra, Jordan, located in a remote valley, nestled among sandstone mountains and cliffs. Machu Picchu, an Incan site near Cuzco, Peru, high in the Andes Mountains. Then you have The Statue of Christ the Redeemer, atop Mount Corcovado, in Rio de Janeiro, Brasília. Six is The Giant Amphitheatre of The Colosseum, in Roma, Italia. And finally, The Taj Mahal. The mausoleum complex that is the finest example of Mughal architecture located in Agra, India. It was commissioned by Shah Jahan as a labor of love, to memorialize his wife Mumtaz, who died in child-birth. She was a Persian Princess." Well he could be a nerd too. And he did all the accents for her. The only thing missing was him kissing his fingers in Italian. Bellissimo!

She was as still as a statue so he knew that he'd flummoxed her. "Right. You showed me," she replied in a bemused tone of voice.

"I'd like to. Unless you'd rather...?"

"What? Unless, what?"

"Unless, you had your heart set on the seven  _natural_  wonders?"

"And what would those be, huh Mr. Wonder?"

"Aurora Borealis, Harbor of Rio de Janeiro, The Grand Canyon, Great Barrier Reef, Mount Everest, Parícutin and The Victoria Falls," he swiftly rattled off. He didn't want her to think that he was that huge of a dork. Or a show-off. "And it's Dr. Wonder, thank you very much."

"Oh excuse me. Doc Wonder it is. Wouldn't want all that Med School knowledge to go to waste now."

"Even without Med School I could do things."

"Like what?"

"We—ll… If I tell you, I would… uhrm… have… to… slow… your… death?"

"Good pitch," she laughed. "Don't want you to have to violate that HIPPO oath thing."

"You do know it's HIPAA, right?"

"Sure do. HIPAA: Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act of 1996. That right, Dr. Wonder?"

"Yeah," he grinned, shaking his head at himself. He should have known. "And it's okay. You can call me Stevie. Mr. Dr. Wonder is my... Grandfather."

"Are you the sunshine of his life?"

"Nope. The apple of his eye, Cherie amour."

"Yoof..," she exhaled.

"Yoof?"

"Yikes plus oof, of course. Now  _those_  wonders were impressive. And yep, all Mother Nature."

"I could show you a whole new world. I could open your eyes, take you wonder by Stevie Wonder's place, on a magic Airplane ride."

"Ebony and Ivory... wait... will  _you_  be doing the flying?" she shot across to him, then without taking a bead continued, "hopefully together alive in perfect harmony?" Probably noticed his lifted brow at the first question followed by a grunt of amusement at the second. "So, a whole new world?"

"A new fantastic point of view."

"A dazzling place I never knew..."

"A whole new world... Oh, the Places you'll go! And what heights you could reach…"

"Whoa there... Keep it in your pants, Dr. Seuss."

"Stop. You know this is PG." But the lilt of his voice could not contain his merriment, which if you gazed closely at him would reflect as a twinkling in his eyes. "Ah, fu—dge. You know what? F—ork PG. You put the sexy in dyslexia... oh shi—rt..."

Ouch. That did not go where he planned. Or the way he intended.

"Wait, did you just try to censor yourself? After that faux pas?"

"Try, being the operative word. Or maybe I should say Yrt?" he anagrammed, light-heartedly ribbing himself by creating this nonsensical replacement.

"I think you're thinking of Palindromes... words or phrases that read the same backward and forward. Like, 'Dammit, I'm Mad.' You're working that out in your head right now, aren't you?"

"Noooo... okay, yeah. How'd you do that?"

"Memory foam," she sniggered. "Although... technically since 'Yrt' is not really a word just 'Try' spelled backwards, it could be a semordnilap. Or without the plural, an emordnilap. The common definition of both refer to words that have different meanings when reversed."

"Okay, now you're just making things up! You're messin with me, right?"

"Of course not. Trues Bob. If you were an English Teacher, you'd know. Jane Elliott says that an Educator is someone who is engaged in the act of leading people out of ignorance. So, let me lead you."

If he could have giffed, memed or ebrojied then, he'd have face-palmed. Or face-palms equivalent, the full body eye-roll. The best he could do was side-eye coupled with lifted brow and hoped he looked salty.

"Please don't start with Bob. I'm sure this writer is all Bobbed out from her last fic."

"Bob—bitted off, you mean," she giggled. "Chopped off more than could chew, huh?"

He winced while strongly resisting the urge to cup himself. "Don't. Just don't." Phantom emasculation was a thing, right?

"Well alrighty then, Bo— err… Norbert's your uncle?"

"Yeah, we covered that too."

"Anyway, I can see why you'd think that emordnilap is fake since palindrome read backwards is emordnilap. Plural with the S. But no, it's pretty much a real thing."

"Wait, isn't Yrt a something? A roundish tent thing, I think? Like an igloo but portable? And softer? Maybe even made from animal skin? That you can carry around and pitch anywhere, I guess."

"That would be Yurt, with a U."

"Why would I be in the middle of a Yurt? I'm not Scarlett."

"Funny guy," she snorted, clearly not  _that_  amused by his standup and obviously confused by what color had to do with anything. "I suppose you  _could_  say 'Yrt' is a reversible anagram." She ignored the other. He supposed that frankly she didn't give a damn.

"Okay, let's go with that, grammar police." He let it go for now, but planned to revisit. Sooner rather than later.

"I prefer... Madam." Hot damn, she palindromed him!

"Egad! No Bondage!" He checked her. He'd been dying to use this in, like forever. Which was about a minute ago, when he thought it up. More likely he remembered reading it somewhere. Good thing his big brain had not let him down. It didn't hurt that he one-upped her. A palindrome phrase for her one word palindrome. Take that, Al!

"War, sir, is raw." Daemn! Checkmate. He was playing checkers while she was playing chess.

"Oh, snap. You got me."

"You know people who can't distinguish between entomology and etymology really bug me in ways I cannot put into words."

He just stared. Her wordplay would spin circles... It was all Geek to him. "You know this isn't really plot-relevant, right? Jerry would not approve."

"Well, I suppose it could give bored readers something to do. And anyway, I'm a Tom man myself. Tomcat gets such a raw deal."

"Whad'ya mean? He's always trying to eat Jerry!"

"I have a soft spot for underdogs, which that cat is. He's just doing what comes naturally to felines. Circle of Life, man. It moves us all. And that nasty mouse serves him up a whole world of hurt. Every. Single. Time."

"Wait, wait. Picture this. Tom is a government employee with orders to visit death and destruction on anyone different. And he has to protect the borders. He takes his tasks seriously. He crushes any rebellion and one small mouse seeking asylum, simply wanting to make a life for himself in the land of the free, home of the cheese, is ripe for deportation. Like really, the rat race is no place for a mouse. Whereas Jerry is simply making a brave stand and protecting his little corner of the big ol house that doesn't even belong to Tom or even the government in the first place."

"Oh wow, deep. I never thought of it like that."

"Our man Jerry is quite the political beast, you know. Check out his Tumblr. At a guess I would say he's not a fence sitter, hashtag supports Black Lives Matter, protests Police Brutality and is a Kaep fan. Unfortunately, this means that he's always on the run. Always one step away from being captured and booted out. Gobbled up by the system. By Tom, the Uncle Sam of Mouseachusetts."

"Oh. Poor Jerry."

He laughed. "You're right. You do have a soft spot."

"Hey!"

"You're easy," he winked at her. "But no Bimbo."

"Bimbo? That the baby elephant that got teased for his ears?"

"That's Dumbo. Bimbo is the main lion from The Lion King."

"I think you mean Simba. But, you gotta know the main lion from The Lion King is Beyoncé, right? I mean,  _Nala_ ," she sighed. "And Bimbo is the warthog that Simba hangs around with."

"Gotcha on Nayoncé. The warthog's Pumba, though. Bimbo is the baby deer looking for its mom."

"That's Bambi. Bimbo is that stew the witch lady made in Princess and the Frog."

"That's Gumbo… and it's delicious. I could really go for some right about now." Since she didn't chomp on the bait of his indirect Gumbo date idea, he led the conversation in another direction. "You into cars?"

"Yes, it truly was an outstanding animation."

"No, I mean like are you a car person?"

"I'm a human."

That went nowhere fast. But her giggles gave it away. He'd been had. Adorably had. Speaking of 'Cars' though, a memory struck him quickly. Not unlike Lightning… McQueen. Okay, okay. Take up the bad puns with the writer. So, the Doc in that movie was voiced by a legendary movie giant himself, in his final part before his death. Which was a nugget worth sharing. "Did you know that Doc was ol Blue Eyes? His last role before he died."

"Nooo. That's not possible. Frank Sinatra was in Cars?" He wondered if she was still pulling his leg, but her wide-eyed look of amazement kiboshed that idea.

"Err... No... The other Blue Eyes."

"Jesse Williams?"

"What?! No. Jesse Williams is not dead! Or old! I mean Paul Newman."

"Oh, Paul Newman. Yeah, I can see that. Or rather, I hear ya."

Since he didn't seem to be scoring many points and since  _someone's_  cartoon knowledge was woefully ignorant, he switched it up. So, speaking of famous movie actors, it made him ask, "Say, in a movie of your life, who would play you?"

"Okay, now that's totally outa left field. Not sure. Who would you choose? To play you, I mean?"

"How about we say our choices together? So no one is embarrassed."

"Umhmm... Oh—kay?"

"Okay. Count of Three. One. Two. Th..."

"Wait! We go on three or one-two-three and then go?"

"Soo pedantic. You're making this much more difficult than it needs be. Aah, I see." She was being nit-picky to give herself more time to pick.

"What is it you think you see, Mr. I-know-everything?"

"Err, nothin. Nothing. We'll go on three, okay?" Uh-oh, putting his foot in it again. "Please," he tacked on, noticing her own lifted brow.

"Okay." She smiled softly, immediately forgiving him his high-handedness.

"Right. On Three. One, Two, Three..."

With the barest of hesitations, followed by an echoing named pick. "ScarJo..." they both called out in tandem. "But not anymore," they continued in unison.

"Wait. Oh snap. You too? Was that what you were going for before?" she asked.

"Yep. If The Black Widow thinks she has the range and capability to play a tree..."

"Well, she aint no Groot. But yeah, same. I read that article too. Really put her foot in it... Again. She's tone deaf when it comes to issues of representation, wouldn't you agree?"

"I would. Like you, I was making the point, though, that she gets every part. With her defense of that pedophilic sexual groomer Woody Allen, I wouldn't want her anywhere near me now, let alone play me."

"Ditto."

"She made a huge production at the #MeToo March even to calling out other alleged abusers and then... How could a person publicly stand by an organization that helps to provide support for victims of sexual assault while privately preying on people who have no power? She actually said that, you know."

"Damn! What a hypocrite. Girl is loco. And what is it with that guy and Asian Women?"

"Hah. I see what you did there."

"Anyway... about representation... I know it's not my place but I kinda understand current show producers tryna cull the herd of excessive whiteness. And don't even get me started on the fragility of the white savior."

"I agree that the time has come for equal representation in the entertainment industry and unfortunately we're a long way off from fairness. But, aside from educating white audiences to appreciate POC, the movie makers themselves need to follow that learning curve."

"How would they go about doing that?"

"By getting rid of the problematic reverse racism believers instead of the true allies. By ending type-casting of Black and Brown people as murderers, thugs, terrorists. By developing the story lines and character traits of People of Color and most importantly by not bartering away respect and admirable qualities to satisfy a diversity quotient."

"I don't really get what you mean by that last one."

"It would be like… pairing a well-respected, intelligent, wealthy Black Man with say his… step-sister? Only because she's Black too. Thus trading your respectable character for screen-time. POC will then be exactly where they've always been… the villains of the piece. Only a degree worse, come to think of it. Coz now they lack a moral compass too. It's a trap that Black Producers need to be wary of falling into. Heavy lies the mantle of Representation."

"Trading character for screen time. In the long run not the kind of representation you'd want, right? But then what about those that use the argument for telling the story of Black Love?"

"Yeah, no. I'm all for telling that story but not when you have to force it. Not when it's Black Sibling Love. In fact this step-cest… incest… stories are that white people kinda nonsense. No offence. Err, obviously I don't mean you. And you know I'm half white, right?" He had to laugh. Did he just 'Not All White People' and 'I Have a White Relative' himself? What a double whammy self-deride!

"Nope. You're right. How can I claim offence when that sexual predator, The Pedophile in Chief, has alluded to finding his own daughter sexually appealing? The Caucasity of it all! It's disgusting. And chilling. White People!"

He supposed that even white people were sick of other white people's racist bullshit.

"Anyhow, what did you mean earlier about giving bored readers something to do? Like what? Read backwards?" he changed the subject, attempting light-heartedness.

"I guess. Who knows, the story in reverse could maybe scrounge up some interest? Make it somewhat entertaining?"

"Yep. I expect that anything is better than canon drivel. You make this bearable. You complete me, Al," he Jerry McGuired her, sure that his eyes sparkled with merriment.

"You had me at 'No Bondage'," she twinkled back in response. "Anyway, you've got to push the narrative arc, my dude."

"Done. Let's fill this effing plot hole."

"Which reminds me… isn't our backstory a decades long friendship cemented in medical school?"

"That's true. You make a valid point. I tell you what, in this version we met Once Upon a Dream."

"Of course! I know you. The gleam in your eyes is so familiar a gleam."

"Yet you know it's true that visions are seldom all they seem?"

"But if I know you, I know what you'll do. You'll love me at once… the way you did once upon a dream."

"You got it, babe."

And they were back to regular programming. The mind on this one...

~~**J—A** ~~

"So maybe we should have a redo? I could just take you to Disney World?"

"Aren't we moving kinda fast here? We just met."

"Nuh uh, you are my density. But I got you. You're worried that this is not a slow-burn, huh? Okay, we'll pump the brakes... go back a bit? So obviously those pre-grammar lessons were hypotheticals. Aspirations...? Maybes...?"

"Right. So all I need is Mrs. Doubtfire to grant me three wishes then, hmm?" She gave him a break.

"With one proviso… ixnay on wishing for more wishes," he quipped, flashing his shining irises and pearly whites, relieved, while thoroughly enjoying the contagious sound of her laughter that connoted a similar wry humor. "I can be your Genie in a bottle, Al." Which he thought was way cooler than simply being a token Princess. Which okay yeah, came with perks. Jets, yachts and fast cars. Somehow he doubted that Al would be impressed by any of his material trappings.

She looked like she would be shocked by a credit card bill of 25,000 Dollars. Perhaps even a wee bit wide-eyed to learn he had a credit limit that high. Larger, if he was being honest. He wouldn't be opposed to some thrifty lessons from her.

In all honesty, he was himself re-thinking the lifestyle that wealth had afforded him. Prodded in no small measure by one brave Swedish 16 year-old climate change activist. Greta Thunberg seriously had him questioning his carbon footprint. Not to mention the legacy, environment and if there would even be a world left to leave for his future lineage. It was a scary prospect really, as according to Greta they'd way overshot the time to act. They were in negative countdown here. The fact that they were living through the era of Earth’s sixth mass extinction was grave indeed.

The situation was exacerbated by climate change deniers who not only weren't doing anything constructive to combat the crises but were instead causing more havoc. Like the Deforestation disaster that Brazil's far-right President, Jair Bolsonaro, was responsible for not only prodding but for creating the conditions that allowed it to thrive.

The Amazon Rainforest – known as the 'Lungs of the World' producing more than 20% of the world's oxygen – was burning. And it was no accident that the 83% increase in forest fires in the Brazilian Amazon – about 72,000 fires between January and August 2019, compared to just below 40,000 over the same period in 2018 – happened just after the indigenous Waorani Tribe from the Amazonian Region of Ecuador, won their lawsuit against Big Oil. Coincidence? He thought not.

Playwright Tennessee Williams in his Pulitzer Prize Winning 1950's Drama 'Cat on a Hot Tin Roof', cut straight to the heart of it. "Mendacity is a system that we live in" and "Laws of silence don't work" were two quotes that Williams had his characters utter. He could've been talking about life today. Expounding on the latter quote, he wrote, "It's just like shutting a door and locking it on a house on fire in hope of forgetting that the house is burning. But not facing a fire doesn't put it out. Silence about a thing just magnifies it. It grows and festers in the silence, becomes malignant..."

America's house was on fire. And with the sounds of silence by Political leaders, Humanity's House – the World – was on fire too. Literally. As in… literally. Also, a figurative literal. Like the intensified emphasis that a verbal exaggeration brought to the conversation.

On a personal level and despite the offer he'd made before of Jet Travel, it was probably best to consider smart technology that didn't run on Fossil Fuels. He needed to douse the flames, not feed it.

So, now how would one go about getting a flying carpet, he wondered? And yeah, frightening though the future was, at present he also had kids on the brain after speaking to Al.

He knew that it was unfitting and premature – certainly not the time or place for flirting – but he was seizing the moment. It was almost a compulsion. A feeling that she would slip through his fingers if he made no overtures. He had this strange sense of foreboding. Almost as if the sands in an hourglass were running out for them.

He also wasn't hesitant in taking advice when he recognized that it was valuable to his personal growth. Voltaire's suggestion of, "Present opportunities are not to be neglected; they rarely visit us twice," certainly was a gem worth following. As was Michael Jordan, who famously quoted Hockey Hall of Famer Wayne Gretzky, with the sage advice, "You miss 100% of the shots you don't take." Doubly – no trebly (was that even a word?) – highlighted, it was a lesson well worth learning.

And there was just something about Al. A hold. A magnetic pull. It would be impossible to get this Genie back in the lamp, since Pandora's Box was opened.

Yep, yep, yep. Once the Genie was outa the bottle, try as one might, no coercion could get him shoved back in. And there it was again… sexual suggestiveness. What was it about this woman and her animal magnetism?

Her effect on him was instantaneous... and original. He'd never felt this way before and knew, down to his bones, that he never would again. He had a strong sense that others had tried to copy her genuine, effortless charm but fallen short. Imitated, he guessed, but never duplicated. Not even 3D Printer possible.

He had to admit, Robbins – Dr. Arizona Robbins not Genie Robbin Williams – substitution of her surgical mentee resident was an excellent pick. She was a good sport and her work was quick but precise. The tiny human doctor contingent would get no complaint from him.

Speaking of… peripheral movement caught his eye and like an inquisitive Alice he gazed up through the looking glass and into the viewing room above. He was astonished as to what this angle of surveillance afforded him. Seven shortish bodies lined up in a row. His very own perp walk: an identikit parade of this Kingdoms unusual suspects. The only difference being that here at Seattle Grace,  _he_  seemed to be the one under investigation. Seven didn't seem to be  _his_  lucky number. Four of the dwarves gazed intently down at him. Yes, him. Not at the procedure and not focused on any of the adjunct surgical staff. They were suspiciously scrutinizing his every movement; an intense perusal. He even got a mouthed, "I got my eye on you" paired with its adjoining movement of index and middle finger swinging back and forth between the watchers orbs and himself. Wait... was the intercom switched on? Had they heard him put the moves on her? And crash and burn...? Ouch. But it was more like singed, right?

He consoled himself with knowing that he'd checked himself before he could wreck himself. Ralph was not his name and Wrecking-it not his game. He would never come in like a wrecking ball. Even if all he wanted was to break her walls… even if all she ever did was break him… even if she ralphed all over him.

He wouldn't ever give her any opportunity to have to say that he just walked away… Like, he would always want her…

Enough to allow himself to be put through the ringer of rigorous scrutiny.

Okay, so he really wasn't into white mediocrity that scratched that vinyl itch with appropriated Black culture. Who then pumped up the exhibitionism – and he didn't mean redneck Cyrus's red encased toothy grin – to become relevant when even  _that_  didn't work. Nonetheless, he was making a point here. And, you know, it was like all about profusely tossing ones cookies. C'mon Vomit! What's good?

An atypically dour – usually more dimpled and McHappy – Robbins, Grumpy Karev, Doc Bailey and The Bashful Shepherdess, were all giving him the stink eye. The other three somehow managed to look both ready to throw-down while simultaneously bored out of their minds. You had Sleepy-looking Stark, the Unfortunate McSneezy that was Yang and Dopey O'Malley.

There they stood, the Dirty Half-a-Bakers-Dozen – rounded up, of course – all looking ready to tell-off and put through the washer any rebel rousers or prospective trouble makers. They were ready to gung-ho go… heigh-ho.

Happy and Grumpy were up to something. Their wild gesticulations flung at each other and then, quite worryingly, down towards the surgical team, were disturbing. He glanced at his partner in crime to get her take, only to be gobsmacked. Why was she wearing two obvious scrub caps – one in shades of red, the other multitudes of green; two of the three primary colors – and how come hadn't he noticed it before? Obviously, now that he had, you couldn't un-see something so glaringly vivid. Aside from looking weird, it almost seemed like she had The Aurora Borealis on her head. The Northern Lights looked good on her and from the reactions upstairs, of the two fairies behind the glass wall, he concluded that each had been vying for her to choose their favorite. She'd hit on a compromise that, while pacifying both, had to have caused her some discomfort. She had a good and gentle heart, it seemed. Kindness personified. That was an extremely rare quality in a surgeon. If he wasn't careful he would be falling for everything about her.

All these observations took but a split second as he swiftly brought his focus back to Asha. It was a waiting game for him now before he could remove the damaged organ to replace it with the newly reconstructed one. But alas, it was not yet to be. The brokered peace did not last; it was shattered by an unlikely source. He glanced up to sternly rebuke the two spectators who seemed not to realize, or didn't give a flying fu— err fig, that their shrill voices carried. Before he could harangue them with a verbal tongue lashing he noted that one of the duo had removed her protective gear and was fanning and scratching herself. WTF! She was out of the immediate sterile radius, but still he wanted no contaminants to even be in the vicinity and in any capacity able to infect his patient and thus compromise the surgery. Seeing as she was a medical professional, she should have known better.

She caused him an obvious double take when he noticed her conspicuous Botox filler. As a Plastic Surgeon whose mission was to assist in a person's growth by giving them the confidence that comes with being and looking one's best self, he hesitated at recommending the injection of that poison into a body simply to attain poofy lips.

In the brief moment before he lit into her he hesitated, immediately noticing that the woman was much older than one would expect of an intern or even a resident. Didn't seem to be much wiser though. What was up with that, Doc? If she was an attending, he wasn't familiar with her. The couple appeared to be having a spat, but just as he was getting ready to instruct them to take it outside or get a room, the old girl bent over. Luckily her partner was all over it, so he didn't need to get involved.

Turns out it was a minor hullabaloo about nothing. Looks like the oldish dirty-blonde (dirty, old blonde?) was in the process of the change. She was by herself The Seven Dwarfs of Menopause – Bitchy, Itchy, Sweaty, Bloaty, Forgetful, Sleepy, and Psycho. Since she was an Unsub – unknown subject – to him and he wasn't a profiler, he really couldn't make the distinction of whether those were simply character traits or, allowing for benefit of the doubt, symptomatic behavior of hormonal imbalance. If not, then possible homicidal tendencies brought on by the onset of hot flashes? Kidding. He was just kidding. Be that as it may, he couldn't argue with the first and last of the seven qualities, as her jarring voice, insolent manner and bad-mouthing identified her as an entitled Prima-Donna and apparent self-proclaimed Medusa.

~~**J—A** ~~

"I should be up there, Dru!"

"How many times do I have to tell you to stop calling me that ridiculous nickname?! So childish!"

"I'm NOT childish!"

"Well, you  _are_  like twelve. Maybe a mean thirteen year old. But I wasn't talking about you."

"Huh?! You  _just_  said…"

"Drew.  _That's_  childish. Not you  _you,_  Maggastasia. Although, sometimes I find it hard to take you seriously when you whine like a terrible two-year old throwing a tantrum."

How 'bout that alliteration? She probably thought she was ready for showbiz.

"Ugh Puhlease! You're one to talk.  _You_  still watch Ben and Jerry."

" _Tom_  and Jerry... and I haven't watched that silly cartoon since I was... a teeny bopper. Which wasn't that long ago. Barely a decade, I would say."

"Pfft." There was a loud snigger. "Uh-huh, yeah rite. And I'm the Queen of Sheba. So tell me then, why do you care so much about their names, huh Dru?"

"Stop. Calling. Me. DREW!" She sounded like one aggravated non-teen. "Sheila," she added, obviously needling her companion.

"Why, Dru? Does it cause you anxiety, Dru? Do you need a binky, Dru?" said cohort pooh-poohed.

"Stop it! You're annoying. You know I hate that name. It grates… sounds like someone I would get fired. Or can her ass myself."

"Sounds more like you're threatened by the name, Mer-DRU-zella!"

"Seriously? You wanna go there?"

"Aachoo—Yang... Hrmphr—Riggs... Catarrh—Stevens..."

"Shut up. Stevens preferred Suits to Scrubs and Yang is still here, Killing Eve... I mean, killin it. Or so she believes. She thinks she's hot stuff but she's not the Sun."

"Or the Moon, apparently. She's not reflecting off of your glory."

"She can go suck it." He didn't need to see her to know that she was green. The envy jumped out. "You know you really should have that nasty nasal thing looked at. That must be it! No wonder you're so irritating. You have a blockage. In your... brain." The phlegmy snort she herself emitted as she ended with that insult, reverberated into a reverse expectoration. A swallowing spit and snot gurgling snuffle. Probably identical to the wheezing kerfuffle she was making fun of.

"You—you shut it. It's a deviated septum."

"You're a deviated septum."

The senseless chatter made it sound more like a kindergarten than somewhere adults congregated for serious things. The pushing and shoving did not help change the landscape any.

Well. He felt foolish. Even though they were sparring more like young kids on a playground instead of acting grown, one thing became crystal clear... these were siblings. Though perhaps not necessarily related by blood. The grapevine of this hospital had been flush with gossip. Apparently there were twisted sisters, sisters who had the same father, others the same mother and those simply declarative ones. Like a sisters sister-in-law automatically considered a sister. Yeah, you didn't have to be a Geneticist to know that's not how DNA worked. You couldn't just disavow irrefutable blood evidence on a say so... on a whose who of liking. Or who you wanted to have physical relations with. And then too, who became judge, jury and executioner and based on what code of ethics? Justifying intimacy between siblings by using the argument of them being consenting adults just would not work from a moral standpoint. From any point really. Country-Trump-Redneck-Republicans – or any single category from these – he supposed, were those alternate fact, fake news exceptions.

Strangely, with all the sisterhood making the rounds, there were hardly any brother-sister duos. Almost as if anti-feminism was running the show. You know that ethos of so-called feminism? That, in retaliation to the Patriarchy, actually became man-haters? Like that. Their alleged equalization of the playing field was geared towards the other extreme. Basically being the superiority of woman coupled with the decimation of man. Whereas women progressed in every frame, men de-evolved in character to caveman status. A regression of morality too.

The reason for his sheepishness in relation to  _these_  sisters though was that he'd classified them as... together. As in  _together_  together. You know, as in like a couple  _together_. It was mortifying really that his impression of the solicitous nature of their initial interaction caused him to go there. Like, if he had a sister he would be looking out for her welfare too. Probably with some sibling rivalry and pigtail teasing thrown in for good measure.

It did make him wonder, though…

After becoming aware of familial ties – via blood, history, marrying parents or simply immutable bonds – it would take a really sick, twisted mind to trivialize, fetishize (incestuize?) and moreover try to normalize a sexual relationship between siblings, step or otherwise. Who even would do that?!

Also, romantically coupling together members of those nurture families – as opposed to nature – was so many shades of wrong. Of course for natural families there were no shades of grey. It was straight black and white wrong. Richard Bach wrote, "The bond that links your true family is not one of blood, but of respect and joy in each other's life." Now clearly the enjoyment Old Boy Dick referred to here had nothing to do with gratification of the flesh. Who even would think to put any kind of family members – other than spouses, of course – together in coitus incestuous like that?!

Not him, that was for sure. This was simply a case of mistaken identity.

There were too many egos in this familial bunch really, and each one concerned with only their individual like-count.

The sisters were still going at it. Showed no hint of slowing down. Actually seemed to be bringing others into their verbal fray.

"You sound just like Aprella before she ran away... 'I'm not an Ugly Duckling, I'm a Swan'…" sister No.2 sing-songed in an obvious mocking parody.

"Frankly my dear, I don't give a meow."

"Oh, boo-effing-hoo." This sister-act seemed to be in a class of one-upmanship.

"I'm not the one who copied every single thing about her." No.1 took her pot shot.

"I didn't! Why would I need to? I'm better than her. 34 million seven hundred and thirty-eight thousand... no wait, forty-three... no four... five... fifty-three thousand and twenty-five times better! Just ask anyone. Everyone has to say it, even you. Why would you say something so mean?! You know my backstory is about being bullied so you have to play your part. Don't make me call your mother!"

"Uh-huh, sounds fake. Where'd you get the number?"

"8.22 YouTube video."

"Aah, gotcha. You do know you added to the count, right?"

"I did? Nah uh. But it's crazy how big it keeps getting. And how fast."

"You're not the only admirer then. Why you looking at me like that? You big mad? You know what they say... that imitation  _is_  the sincerest form of flattery? Must be true, I guess? So whatever."

"Whatever, huh? You're one to talk about impersonating. Like those milkmaid braids are your style! Hah! Is this what the vogue mature woman wears to feed the pigs?"

"No need to get personal. And it's emulating not impersonating. Also, I'm not fat!"

"Huh? What? When did I say that? Stop putting words in my mouth! Why does everybody hate on me? I stand by and defend my friends just like they support me. Unconditionally."

"I didn't know you had any friends."

"Ha-ha. You should do stand-up."

"Stop loudly flipping the fuck out over nothing. Do you ever just think, girl?"

"Yee—aah... and that shit hurts."

"You know, Mother and one trolling admirer creating multiple twitter accounts, do not a fan-base make. C'mon, let's keep it real here. Are you the twat making all those twits? You need to be craftier, Magwheel. You need to cultivate the ability to think critically. You can't go around dissing constructive criticism as bullying from haters. Just end up looking bitter. And stupid."

"Mother!"

"Oh stop. Take a chill pill you gigantic bully. Me and you are on the same side here, remember?"

"It's  _me_  and you."

"That's what I said."

"No!" exasperatedly. " _I_  am first. Always. Mother said so. Me, myself and I."

"Oh you mean, you and me?"

"That's right. You and me. Wait a second, lemme just think..."

"Nevermind. Otherwise this is… nevermind. Let's jus move on."

"I'm so confused. I feel like you tricked me in some way, but I donno how."

"Forget about it." There was a short pause and then, "You know I used her too. Aprella. Actually I wish she was still around..."

"Seriously?!"

"Oh, don't 'seriously' me! Girl, ditch those diapers and yank up those Huggies pull-ups…"

"Watch yourself, Pampers or I won't invite you to my wedding." A person could almost hear the foot stamping tantrum in her words. Not to mention the whining. "Cut it out with the side-eye. You know I meant as soon as I find me a brother. Girl's gotta do what a girl needs doin. You feel me?"

"Okay, okay. You've graduated to big girl panties now. So pull em up. You  _know_  she brought the ratings. We're crashing to series lows over here. And anyway, she'd be the perfect scut monkey."

"You are a nefarious conniver. Me likey. I can be twisted too, you know?" 2's voice had that undertone of unrepentant glee.

Which, naturally, prompted the question, "What did you do?"

No.1 was blithely ignored by No.2. Or rather the enquiry was. "Do you want me to sixty-nine her?"

"Wha...? Oh, you mean eighty-six her?" was the confused but pithy comeback.

"Yeah."

"Ohh-kaay? Yeah, no."

"I'll sock it to her... Pew Pew Kapow."

"You're a hoot, girl. At this rate you'll be sixty-nining me. I mean eighty-sixing. All these numbers... so baffling. C'mon. Give it up."

"Give what up?" It was actually possible to hear the smirk in 2's voice.

"The skinny ... the tea under the shade … the four-one-one ..."

"Two words. Poison Apple!"

"Huh? What now? How now brown co—err how now?"

"Her iPhone and iPad. Any and all of her devices. I planted a virus! A Trojan horse on her email with links to download two 'supposed' apps. You know that charades type, non-trivial pursuit, celebrity one… BLeBRiTY? And the Ebroji Gif one? Yeah, well, fake links that she thinks will be those. She won't be able to resist, I tell you. Then bam, I'll have her. If she so much as breathes funny on it after, her device will be toast. May even go up in smoke!"

"Yeesh, what did you do that for? You spent money on a hacker, right? One who'll probably end up wiping  _your_  accounts! And it got you nowhere. Such an idiot move."

"Bold of you to assume that I hired someone else to do this." She tried it. "Okay, you're right. I found and paid him on the internet. But it's not real money. So there. Who's the idiot now?"

"Still you. Bit-coin or any other cryptocurrency is simply a medium of exchange, just way more secure on the web. And on the dark web, it's untraceable."

"How was I supposed to know that?" she whined. "Can't see into the future. I'm not a Witch."

"No? Then why do you dress like one?"

"Hey!"

"So, so stupid."

" _You're_  stupid."

"Yo Momma."

"Dang… I shudda expected this. Every single time! You wait for this, right? You always go there! Okay, I'll bite. Here goes…Yo Momma so stupid she thinks reverse racism is real."

"Yo Momma so stupid she thinks a sista banging her bio dad's stepson is relationship goals."

"Yo Momma so stupid she thinks having a black husband and children cures racism."

"Yo Momma so stupid she don't see no color."

"Yo Momma so stupid she tweeted her poop stain and thought she on google."

"Yo Momma so stupid she thinks that step-siblings shtooping is keeping it in the family."

"Yo Momma so stupid her wokeness is fakeness."

Uproariously entertaining when you realized that both were throwing jabs at their own parent. Or was it meant for each other and the "Yo Momma" was their attempt at street slang?

By sis 1's reaction it was clear to him that she was an old hand at Kardashian-ing it. The it being appropriated Black emojis and slang… Black-face in a non-physical sense. Whatever the motivation, it was amusing. As for the sisters, all he could muster was one sarcastic thought. Sibling goals, right?

Alrighty. So the bulk of the conversation he'd managed to ignore – honestly it had just been irritating white noise as background accompaniment – but the riff that segued from "The Stupids" was an unwitting attention getter. Glancing towards his partner in gut grime and un-glory with the intention of commiserating at the absurdity they'd been privy to – via a non-verbal but exaggerated eye-roll – he was surprised at her lack of reaction. It was as if all color had been drained outa her and she was in the presence of a Grey Monotony. Or perhaps invited to Gary's Autopsy?

Her attention was so centered on the patient's colon that he couldn't fault her for not even a short, quick glance up for a personal chat, though that had been what they'd been doing throughout. But something just felt off. Almost as if her voice had been stolen. If he was the suspicious sort he would immediately attribute it to  _her_. "KrUrsula!" would be his dark thought.

~~**J—A** ~~

An interruption blasted through his preoccupation with the finesse of a Hulk smash and the rude inconsideration of a Thanos snap. If only he could make this interloper disappear just so easily. Without the need for a universal quest to source a gauntlet and six infinity stones, of course.

Strangely, this intrusion had an equal non-effect on his surgery partner. Yeah, she felt more like a howdy pardner than a subordinate… like Buzz Lightyear to his Sheriff Woody. Yeah, yeah he heard it. He was Woody for her.

"Dr. Avery, you really should tap me into this surgery."

"Step-back Intern. I have my team and you're here simply to watch and learn." What utter gall and arrogance! Having finished arguing with her sister, she thought it appropriate to insert herself here! Who did this lowly intern think she was?!

"Resident, actually. Really, I'm a genius. I know it all. Specializing in Cardio, but they put me everywhere. I can do anything. Even plastics. It's all child's play. Didn't your mother tell you about me?"

"No. My mother has no say in my surgeries. And I have no interest in finding out what you do and do not know. This is highly inappropriate. I'll have a talk with Bailey once I'm done here. Enough of this see one, do one, teach one methodology. The idea may be good on paper but not in practice. Especially when it's a new or high risk procedure." Confidence was one thing and he respected initiative. But this was neither.

"I'm Dr. Pierce… Maggastasia… Maggie… and I don't think you're aware, but I got the patient to eat when she hadn't had anything since getting here."

Now  _that_  caught his attention. And not only his, apparently. He read the surprise in Al's eyes as she peeped up from the resection.

Added to that, the depressed gallery intercom introduced other shenanigans. It appeared that his OR was about to be invaded.

First he heard Bailey's surprisingly quiet voice. It was as if she was speaking to herself. "Honey, you've got a big storm a comin." Now who was that meant for and more importantly why?

Then a different female voice. "C'mon Karev, we're needed! Let's get down there, Grumpus," he very clearly made out. This was followed by the sound of running footsteps.

Considering that the AA duo – Arizona/Alex – had inserted Al into this op, he figured that they were rushing to her rescue. Why she would need them, however, was a mystery. Not only did she have mad skills but she was acing the surgery.

The question 'Why?' seemed to be at the heart of everything.

Meanwhile, Dr. Interruptus was not letting up. He had his suspicions but, for the moment, he decided to play along. He really wasn't a hypnotized Prince Eric so he hoped that Al would not take his questioning as a sign of interest. Perhaps he could clue her in…

"Oh yeah, MagUrsula?" he asked, deliberately mangling her name. He wouldn't put it past her to be a co-conspirator. She seemed to be responsible for 'stealing' Al's voice too. He followed up with a question that the imposter appeared not to have expected if her unnatural hesitation was anything to go by. "What did you get Alicia to eat?"

"Oh, uhrm… Mickey Dees, of course. It was such a treat for her! Alicia is from such a backward country, right? They don't get to have all these things we take for granted."

Third wheel was so far up her own ass that not only didn't she realize that the patient's name was incorrect but that he was making a point by twisting hers. She struck him as a self-involved narcissist so she likely assumed it was all about her. For that matter, every statement of hers was complete BS.

And if the sputtering sounds emanating from his surgery companion were any indication, Al too agreed with that analysis. All he could make out were random words as she continued operating and refused to look up or acknowledge the unwanted presence. He caught some here and there, some questionable, others confusing but starting with firm negatives. It sounded like she said, "No, No, No... No processed American foods … Asha! … Nsima? … Sticky Yellow Maize Porridge? … Swahili … No! NOT backward …" From there she segued into frustrated song. His jam. "Why the fuck you lyin, why you always lyin, oh God stop the fuckin lyin…" He had the strong sense that she wasn't the type for foul language. Any expletives, really. So yeah, her dropping of the F-bomb – not once, but twice! – was a strong indication of her mindset. Girl was pissed. She didn't leave it there but moved on to what actually  _sounded_  like Swahili, although he couldn't confirm that, as he wasn't a language connoisseur. Could she actually curse in Swahili, he wondered? What he  _could_  attest to was that this was one angry woman. She seemed to take Piercing's words as an affront on behalf of Asha and the entire African continent. He couldn't and didn't blame her. At all. Pinprick was ignorant… and arrogant about it. The worst sort of human. For himself he got the gist of her ramblings. Regarding his patients, he kept abreast of everything related to their care. He was no fool.

"I was obviously misinformed. I heard that a doctor actually cooked up something in the canteen kitchen that  _Asha_  could eat. This person also sang to her." He wondered how far Porridge was willing to take this lie. If she felt any compunction at all. As for himself, he harbored no misgivings about exposing her.

"Oh, oh yes. McDonald's was the one day and the next day I made her some Mac and Cheese. The American experience in full. Right?"

"Riii-te. And what did you sing for her?"

"Look what you made me do."

"Wh—I never..." Though it didn't make any sense since she wasn't assisting, he still glanced down at Asha to see what damage had been inflicted. "What did you do? Did you do something to Asha?"

"No, no, no… wait. I meant…"

"What even are you talking about? You're crazy! Step away from my patient."

"No, stop. Wait for it… It's a Swifty. That's all."

"What's a what now?"

"Taylor Swift." She seemed to expect some excited reaction from him but had to continue explaining when no recognition seemed to be forthcoming. "You know her… our Aryan princess. My sister introduced me to her work. Swifty is her bestie. She even named her pussy after her."

"Err, what now? Nope. Nevermind. Don't wanna know. Don't know her, don't care to."

"It's a great honor that her cat is my sister's namesake. Look, I know what you're thinking, but that whole thing with Kanye and Kim Kardashian... well she very much wanted to be excluded from that narrative. She never asked to be a part of it, you see. And okay her twerking is a bit of a mess and she's tone deaf regarding timing, but her dance moves definitely don't look like a chicken laying eggs. And those people that claim she likes to play victim, well they don't know what they're talking about. I wouldn't put it past KKW to doctor that recording."

"Uh... who the what?" How did the Klan get into this account?

"And after all that Trump stupidity, you just know she's got an inside track. Swifty is the white savior we never knew we needed, right?"

"But know we don't want," he responded in a quiet aside. Adding, "What's the difference between ignorance and apathy?" he asked of her.

"Don't know, don't care," she replied not really getting it herself. And not realizing that she'd actually answered. Maggastasia/MagUrsula was on a roll and wasn't interested in anyone's opinion, so she simply rode roughshod over his words. "Anyway, why should we give up something I love...? Uhh  _she_  loves? Just so you know, that's Taytay! But, TBH, who doesn't love her, hey?"

"Not me. Who she? Sounds like a stripper's nipple pastie. Infact, the only Tailor I know is the one who custom stitches my suits. And WTF is TBH?"

"To be honest."

"You would know all about that, huh?" Shots fired!

"Sorry… what?"

He didn't buy the dumb act. Becoming a Medical Professional – a Surgeon to boot! – was not something a stupid person could pull off. Was this simply a standout attention getter? Either way, still an act.

About Swift... he was not clueless, just uninterested. Knowing his abhorrence for white mediocrity and their unending thievery by plagiarizing Black Culture – of which TS was an expert, having worn other cultures as costumes her entire career – his pal Warren had actually sent him a link to a Bossip article. The title had had him chuckling at the shade. "Beyoncé Tether Taylor Swift Used The Unseasoning Stone And A Marching Bland To Gentrify Beychella And Got Banished To The Alabaster Abyss." Yikes. That tea was piping.

And if he had to go one step further – per think piece articles, Bossip and Black Twitter – Price's song choice, was a clear knockoff of Beyoncé's Formation. The gentrification pattern emerged and got ol Swifty dragged by her pseudo-twerking behind. Infact her whiteness was so fragile, her racial consciousness had glass bones and paper skin.

"I hear tell that you also sang Moana to Asha?"

"Why Dr. Avery, have you been keeping your eye on me? Go ahead, spill it. You've been checking me out, haven't you? Why you old hound dog. You better watch out, you better not cry, my mama is coming to town," she attempted a come-hither wink that simply came off as Lasik required, squinty near-sightedness tryna see into the distance. With no pause to gauge his reaction, she continued. "You know my mother says that a man will become so besotted with me that he will make me his Queen of Hearts. I would be announced as 'Her Imperial Highness, Her Grace, Her Excellency, Her Royal Majesty, The Queen of Hearts.' And the Knave? Why I could never love him as much as he loves me.  _I_  am The Prize, you know. A prize catch. Are you a betting Dan, Moctor? Care to put a wager on whether you could be that man? My TV Bae?"

"Wait… What now? You want me to be TV Excrement? I don't know how that would work but it sounds painful. I'll give it a pass."

Okay, so he understood a Strong Black Woman bringing up her daughter with the strength of character to believe in herself. It was commendable, really. But to the exclusion of everything else? That raised some serious red flags. Especially considering that while shattering the glass ceiling for women, they smashed the moral compass too. They trampled over everyone else, including loved ones. And they discounted character as well as pre-existing relationships while forcibly attempting to bond two people who had not even a spark of a connection and where none had any business being.

"Oh c'mon now. We could rule the surgical world. Who run this motha?"

"Girls?"

"No, us! C'mon man, keep up! You know we have that Game of Thrones chemistry goin on."

"Oh, do you see yourself as the Mother of Dragons?"

"Nah, Dani is weak... and apparently mad. She's also nothing without those Dragons. And you're definitely no murdering King in the North. I'm talkin bout them Lannisters, Boo. What a pairing, I tell you. Relationship goals."

"It's Dr. Avery. I aint no ghost." He was fed up with her unprofessionalism. "Those Lannisters? You  _do_  know they're brother and sister, right? Twins, actually."

"Yeah, so? Season of Brotherly Luuuv. How romantic was their love story? Four incest babies then dying in each other's arms," she sighed. "I can be your sister and you can be my Brother Bae! Hashtag Family Style, Bro."

He shook his head in amazement that such cluelessness existed in the brain of a supposed educated person. He was in the company of his very own Dr. Ben Carson. "Pass. But thanks for the offer. The only thing I'm interested in checking out, is my patient. I don't even know you. Now, once again, step back or leave the theatre."

"No wait. Moana, you said. Yes, yes. It's Ali— err Ashanti's favorite too."

"You can sing it for her when she wakes up then."

"Moana, Moana… you're welcome…" she 'sang'. Still an unwanted participant to his environment she assaulted their ears with her mini rendition.

Even without knowing the words, the pick, in and of itself, revealed her ass. She was an entitled, unrepentant egotist, who unlike Maui, was too self-involved and oblivious to get the Disney life lesson. She learnt nothing about doing good simply to help and without having the ulterior motives of fame, glory and perchance acceptance. Although he knew it in his gut – Al would definitely be rolling her eyes at his inability to get away from intestinal metaphors – this musical showcase was proof enough for him. MagUrsula was NOT his Ariel.

Now Al, on the other hand…

First he heard the humming. Then the song.

"…And nothing on earth can silence the quiet voice still inside you. And when that voice starts to whisper… Moana, you've come so far… Moana, listen, do you know who you are?"

She was killin him softly with this song. Telling Asha to hope, with those words. Killin him softly, with Lin's words. "It calls me," he joined her chorus. Now while Moana referred to the sea calling her, for him the calling was a Manifest Al.

"Do you know her?" she probed with that insatiable curiosity that begged the asking of ever so many questions.

"Who? Moana?" he posed in return, not minding in the least. Since she'd been present at his interaction and thus privy to his responses to Margie, it was a no brainer as to which her. "No," he replied at her nod of confirmation. "But I can probably call her. Get her on the phone," he clarified at her arched brow in response to his first statement, which he surmised to be a prompt for an explanation.

"Whaat?! No way!" she laughed that contagious laugh of hers. "Y'a trippin Doctorman."

His voice joined her peals of amusement. And there they stood, two chuckling dorks – luckily they weren't busting any guts; enough with the bowel analogies already! – bookended on one side by a sullen, scowling bully and on the other by the maternal Bokhee grin of approval.

He kinda went old school just then. Calling up Moana he thought of phones and unwittingly his gaze was drawn towards Al's ears. Or rather what he could see of them, which was really just the outline. "Why Grandma, what big ears you have," he joked.

"All the better to use a stethoscope with. My, what… you have eyes…"

"Huh, what now?" he was confused. Didn't they all have eyes?

"Note to self: Snap outa it, Eyes!"

"Sorry, I didn't quite catch that." He did, but decided to give her a break. She appeared transfixed. She should see him without a shirt on. It was ridiculous!

"Ummm, I mean, my, what  _big_  eyes you have, Granma, and how is it that your teeth shine right through your mask? Whitener?"

If she was noticing teeth, lips weren't too far off. Her lips... his lips... Apocalypse. Yeah, his mind went there. What he said however, was not world ending. "It's called The Avery Sparkle. Patent pending. Anyway, what big feet you have, Grannie." Yep, he sized her up and found her... just perfect.

"What?! How'd you know that? It's not like I Facebook friend your mother or anything like that."

"You're Facebook friends with my Mother?!"

"I mean she's Catherine Avery, you know."

"You don't say! Wait… I know I'm a Facebook novice but what does feet size have to do with anything?"

"Umm, well see it's like this. She had a picture after one really gory procedure. I mean blood everywhere, even on her shoes. It was an unexpected bleeder. Anyway, long story short she asked to see others in their scrubs. Strangely though, she seemed more interested in feet. Especially in protective covering. Like plastic slippers. Which was a bit weird."

"Damn. That woman is a lunatic. Did she really just size up prospectives?"

"Prospectives? What prospectives?"

"Uhh, nothin. Sooo, you're the girl with the see-through shoes, huh? Salmonella, right?"

"I think you mean Cinderella. Wait, what? Nooo… she wouldn't. Would she?"

"She would, Mozzarella."

"Again, it's Cinderella. But I'm not her. And anyway, I just follow your mother for her innovative procedures. We've never even interacted."

"Except for foot fetishes."

~~**J—A** ~~

Getting down to the business of defeating this tumor, they were on the final leg of the procedure. With laser focused, concentrated attention – finally! – the joint coupling of two pairs of hands inserted the reconstructed voice box into the cavity.

Having this partner, he hoped for many more encores with her.

She was grace under pressure, with a natural affinity for people. An almost regal bearing. A quiet nobility. She would be A People's Princess.

She also went above and beyond for her patients, even when not asked. She saw the patient as a whole, and that kind of caring couldn't be taught.

"Me and you," he reclaimed their catchphrase.

"Me and you," she echoed.

Who even cared if it was a grammatical misdirection.

~~**J—A** ~~

About ready to close they were disturbed. Again. This was the most erratic surgery he'd ever been involved in! What he really wanted to say was, "Come back with a warrant." But, "Robbins, you killin me over here," was the extent his expression of dismay took at this revisiting of the previous disruption that she pulled. Except with one major difference… this time the consternation was on the other foot.

They were only two, but the cacophony these intruders produced suggested multiple subjects.

"Jackson, I'm sorry but we urgently need Dr… err Sloan…" This from Robbins.

"Avery. They need Ap—, yeah you know, that resident... Dr. Aurora?" Simultaneously from Karev. Firm start but petering into uncertainty.

Needless to say he was A Very befuddled Avery. Who was this Ap-Aurora Sloan actually? What were her credentials and why was she in the middle of his surgery? And most importantly, why were they calling Al all these names? Oh yeah, and how come were they now tryna remove her from said operation?

As much as his view allowed him, what with her holding a sterile mask over the bottom half of her face, he observed Robbins give Karev a beady eyed look of disgust before she turned her attention onto  _him_.

"Can you close here without him?" she simply ignored her sidekick's insertion.

"Who?" he could play dumb too. But in this case he  _was_  perplexed. Him? Who was Him? Karev? He didn't even go here! To this surgery, he meant.

"Dr. Sloan. The one that's been assisting you... that Sloan. Son of the renowned Plastic Surgeon, Dr. Mark Sloan."

"Mark Sloan?  _The_  Mark Sloan? I didn't know Mark Sloan had a son...?"

"He doesn't talk about him much."

"Hmm. So his son is a Resident? At our hospital? And part of our Training Programme? What...? Did they send us Mumfords, when we asked for sons?" he threw in his own version Mulan style joke while his mind attempted to process what Robbins was sharing.

No way was Al a guy! What he could see of her looked too pretty. She had these eyes that just... and her smile... ahhh. Could she maybe be Transgender?

She was beautiful. Like Nala from The Lion King. And she talked so smart. Like err... Nala from The Lion King.  _Beyoncé!_

Al... Sloan – this was gonna take some getting used to – was gazing at Robbins, looking bewildered. Her/His puzzlement, however, seemed to dissipate with Robbins unspoken message, which consisted of a Morse code like eyebrow twitch and barely perceptible head tilt towards Perce. Something was up.

Karev snorted, Sloan was too distracted for a reaction to his pun and Robbins simply went, "What?" Tough crowd.

"No." He felt like he was engaged in a futile game of whack-a-mole. Unsure whether today he was the mallet or the mole. Such a mood. "We're almost done here and Dr... Sloan, was it? deserves to close. Whoever or whatever can wait till the op is done." Turning towards who he now considered as  _his_  protégé he said, "Doctor, I'll... make a surgeon out of you."

"Err... I'm already a Surgeon?"

Robbins seemed to see the wisdom in his actions, although that didn't replace the unspoken worry that lined her face. She did add an unexpected caveat and her slip of the tongue confirmed his intuition that something was afoot. "Well, get to it then. We don't have all day. Gotta go out and celebrate our Women's Day too," she revealed. Thankfully it wasn't loud enough for the rest of the audience, but he caught it.  _Our_  Women's Day, huh?

~~**J—A** ~~

Someone else though, saw fit to question his decision. Not even afforded the courtesy of a direct confrontation, he was addressed via the Gallery intercom.

"Dr. Avery, Dr. Pierce will do the closing."

"I don't know who you are but I'll thank you to stay out of my surgery... and my decision."

"Can we just talk about Maggastasia with her goggles and chemicals? It's everything. She was meant for this. And so was Dr. Grey. Surgery is in their blood. Choose one of them."

"Mother!" This from Pierce.

At the same time, "Thank you, Mother." This from the sister.

"Who  _are_  you?!" He rounded out the chorus.

"I am Shonda Rhimes. And all of this," she spread her hands, encompassing her surroundings, of which she stood as the nexus, "belongs to me. You will do as I say, Avery."

Shut the front door! So  _this_  was her. The Big Momma. And apparently the sisters with different surnames who didn't share her last name either – probably used their father's – were her daughters? He wasn't intimidated. By any of it. Bring it on, he thought. And that's exactly what he said. "This is  _my_  OR and  _my_  surgery. Stay out of it."

The vultures were circling. He didn't know if they underestimated him or overestimated their mother's influence. They showed their ass. Basically saying to him, that under their administration, what level of respect and authority was his to grasp. Respect that he commanded in  _his own_  OR, during  _his own_  surgery, in a hospital that was fifty-one percent held by the Foundation that was basically  _his_   _own_  family. Slight to none, in case it wasn't clear. The R-E-S-P-E-C-T, that is.

Al – yeah he was gonna continue to use that moniker to avoid confusion and because that was from the horse's mouth herself... so to speak – seemed uncertain but she wasn't given a chance to make a firm decision as those narcissists times two, with all their jostling, almost propelled her out the OR.  _Slight_  exaggeration.

When push came to shove though, she didn't take it lying down. She was so Boss, taking charge and getting it done like a Machine... THE Machine. "I got this," she said to him before hip-checking first the one sister's booty, then the other, both of them crowding in on either side of her. "You're in my spot," she Sheldon Coopered them.

He'd never felt prouder. Like Chicken Little's mom watching her baby chick stand up for herself. Though she be but Little, she was Fierce. "In your face, Bullies." Yeah, they could suck-it. That was his quiet ad-lib.

He took a step back, allowing himself the luxury of simply watching her. Which is how he noticed her interaction with a gallery occupant and a complete one eighty in her manner. Following the trajectory of her upward glance he observed the beneficiary of her attention, which in turn stirred his own curiosity.

She appeared to shrink within herself like a forlorn waif, her demeanor one of quiet stillness. She looked despondent. Heartbroken. Disappointed. And so very sad. At a guess he would say that it wasn't her quiet form of feminism or womanism that inspired her behavior. Or of having a posture of hopeful expectation.

Conversely, Rhimes gaze towards her had the mean-spirited, self-satisfied smirk of a cat who ate the canary. Sylvester gobbling Tweety, perhaps? Nah. Somehow he doubted that Sly would ever accomplish that. Disney royalty coin would not allow. Just look at poor Tom. Could he still be the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man without a neighborhood in the MCU?

Wicked Stepmother, however, appeared to represent the scenario of more plausible deniability. It was like Lady Tremaine once again crushing the spirit of her stepchild Cinderella, to the benefit of her own ugly-hearted daughters and to the detriment of kind-hearted but severely put upon Cinders. Quite ironic that while Lady Rhimes never suborned representation - it just was, organically - getting tagged with 'The Angry Black Woman' handle in a think-piece article by a jealous, bitter white woman, actually let loose the very qualities they decried.   

Speaking of cruel and unusual punishments coupled with Evil Stepmothers, his own just stepped into the fray. It had confounded him, why anyone in their right minds would want to hitch themselves to atrocity personified. Turns out his mother did. And in the doing released her own capacity for malfeasance.

There they stood. A merry band of dumbasses leading the show. The unholy trinity of his mother, stepmother and Shonda Rhimes all together… a self-deluded trio of ludicrous bad taste. With just a little bit of venom. How could one guy get so lucky as to be on the observational radar of that trifecta of overbearing arrogance, huh?

Wearing photo-op, shit-eating grins, they seemed to have planned his future down to the minutiae. Like a triumvirate of bad witches huddled over their bubbling cauldron, spewing incantations and brewing up evil. Although, a lone X did mark the spot of loathsome, unrepentant foulness. No guesses needed, as to who that represented.

It confounded him, really, why anyone would put a wicked step-mother in charge? She who was endowed with the cybernetic code of a cocKRoach. Being like how one roach could swiftly become an infestation, contaminating everything. A dirty, filthy creature that was nigh impossible to get rid of. You know what he was sayin here, right?

He watched as Al squared her shoulders, ready to get back to closing. No way was he leaving her alone in these shark-infested waters. But he gave her some space to do her thing. This was her moment of triumph and he wasn't about to let it be stolen out from under her.

Her attention was solely on Asha, which left her open and vulnerable to the ambush. While his own was so centered on what she was doing, that he ignored movement in his peripherals and blind spots. He was unable to stop what happened next. Time seemed to freeze, or rather he did. It was as if everyone was moving through jello and though he tried to reach her, it was too late.

How and when the nasty sisters managed to push themselves back in, was a mystery. And that they got away with the attack, a shock. He wondered if he could add Tortious Interference to the Malicious Harm he'd just witnessed? Al had held out her hand to receive the needle driver required for the closing sutures but what she got instead was a scalpel, blade side up. Not only wasn't it correctly handed to her, but it was violently stabbed into her outstretched palm, slicing through the latex glove and into the delicate layers of skin below.

Her yelp of pain and the spurt of bright red that caused a small puddle to form smack dab in the center of her palm, clued him in to what had transpired. It was no spindle puncture or slight cut. What it was, was a huge gash caused by a big stab. Pierced by a big Prick. Pricked by a large Pierce. Could be either. Likely both.

"Quick, she's losing a lot of blood! She needs an infusion. Stat! What's her blood type?!"

"B positive."

"I'm trying but she's losing a lot of blood!"

"Maybe she just needs true loves kiss."

"On her hand? Eww, barf."

These pretend sisters were driving him nuts. He didn't know what they hoped to accomplish with this over-the-top, soap operaish, melodramatic idiocy.

In the ensuing commotion of confusion, both Robbins and himself made a beeline towards Al. Robbins almost bowled him over as they both hastened to her side, intent on stemming the bleeding. Al stopped him from doing anything though, and he knew why. He read it in her eyes. He had to be the one to close now and she wasn't gonna contaminate the scene. Asha deserved better.

"I've got her, Avery. Go on, do what you need to do," Arizona ordered. "And get rid of that mess while you're at it," she cocked her head towards the two unrepentant, whispering sisters.

Price, it seemed, didn't know when to quit. When to leave well enough alone. She also felt no compunction at lying straight to his face. "How clumsy. Don't worry, Do— Jackie," she simpered. "I'll do it. I'll close for you. I only hope  _she_  hasn't caused any lasting damage," she emphasized the pronoun, glaring daggers aimed at Al's back. "Swift wound closure is important, you know. They say an open incision is an open door for infection."

Having become acquainted with Margie's methods he shouldn't have been surprised by her presumptuousness. But her blatant attack, immediate disownment of it, then attempting to cash-in on her manipulation, had his eyes bugging out. Not for long though. Al and Arizona were being read the riot act via gallery intercom. He couldn't be bothered to deal with the insolent interloper until after  _that_  unfairness was ironed out.

She also wasn't entirely correct. Not in all cases. Sometimes drainage needed to happen or swelling needed to go down before a surgical cut could be stitched up together. In this instance though, immediate closure was the correct ticket. But really, who the hell gave her the right to call him Jackie?

"You there, Girl... I don't like melodrama in my Dramas. Unscripted lines, people going off book, ad-libbing any old thing. Flirting. Leaving a perfectly good white guy at the alter..."

"Wait, what?" Robbins and Al both exclaimed in stupefied unison. He seconded that.

"Stop fronting. Acting all innocent like. You know what. You religious fanatics like to cause trouble. Damn Bible Thumpers."

"What are you talking about?!" Robbins incredulous voice asked. "She's the victim here."

"Enough! How dare you question me? You're fired! Both of you!"

"You can't do that!"

"I just did. Your contracts are up for renewal and I'm passing. You have no more story to tell."

As he was in the process of being re-gloved, he couldn't move but that wasn't going to stop him from speaking out. His mother surprised him, though, pre-empting his outburst.

"Hold on. Let's just take a minute here. Let's not be too hasty and say something that our lawyers can't get us out of."

"Don't worry, she doesn't have a leg to stand on. And the other one will need to try on a prosthetic to have one."

"We can't have you doing this today of all days. You  _do_  know what day it is?"

Not the tack that he would have taken but at least there was a voice of reason. Barely perceptible though that reason might have been.

"I don't care what today is, Kitty Cat." Okay now, color him red-faced. This was not a conversation he ever wanted to be a party to. And it's not like his embarrassment threshold was low. I mean, his mother had given Webber a go too. But no, these ol biddies possessed no filters. "What  _is_  today, again?" his demented step-mother loudly whispered. But for the fact that she was with his mother he would seriously have considered her a racist. She seemed bent on putting like colors with like. Perhaps his parent's agenda was suspect too.

"International Women's Day! So take it easy. We're representative and feminists, don't forget."

"You have a point, lover. Right, okay. You two? Meet me in my office as soon as you clean up." From the fading sound of the still talking KV, he surmised that she'd turned around to leave the gallery, his mother in tow. "Imagine a Medivac Helicopter ride with the patient's blood spurting everywhere, Catherine. A play on Blood Relations," she chortled with a snort... Snortled? "I could make that work," she cackled. "No one can fund-raise like me and, as I've said many times before, I'm a fantastic story-teller!" she crowed.

As if. 

"Nurse, where's the suture kit? The needle-holder? Bunch of incompetents! You should anticipate my every requirement. I shouldn't have to ask for stuff. Do your jobs!"

Pierce-a-Donna was pushing her weight around and he'd had enough.

"Get out of my OR," he ordered. Facing the hoard of spectators that were still there he let them have it too. "All of you. Go."

As the exodus continued Price did not budge. "But… but…" she sputtered.

He was through playing nice. "I. Said. Leave. Now!"

And finally, he was free of her presence. A short, quick glance upward confirmed that the Gallery had been cleared out too.

~~**J—A** ~~

"Causing quite the ruckus here today, aren't you?"

"Ruckus? What are you an old woman?"

"Just speaking your language."

He laughed, immediately feeling the tension in his shoulders dissipate. "What, did they send you to help me not botch this up?"

"Nah, man. Suspended from surgery, remember? And I know you got this. I  _did_  see the commotion from up there, and I was curious."

"Aren't you worried you'll get into trouble?"

"What they gonna do? Suspend me some more?"

"Yeah."

"I aint fraid of no GOAT."

"Just your wife. Aah," he caught on. "She sent you in here. What is she like a Fairy God Mother or somethin?"

"The Greatest Of All Time. But she's just worried. We both are. This is not like you."

"She fill you in?"

"The parts that I missed, yeah. And there was some hair-pulling in the outer-room just then."

"What?!"

"Don't worry, they gone. Those sisters though… man they almost knocked your red-head out by grabbing at her mask and scrub cap."

"Red-head? Is she okay? Did you help her?"

"Didn't need to. She shoved them and took off. Pretty and pretty feisty too."

"Yeah, she seemed strong. So then. Hit me with your best shot."

"I donno, man. After all it is pretty romantic isn't it?"

"You got to be kiddin me!"

"Bro, your masculinity is mad toxic right now. Okay, so your meet cute wasn't that cute but well you hit some high notes. And you know, most of the world's greatest lovers were brought together during a time of epic conflict. Admittedly most of them were doomed but they did find the romance in it, so why can't you? You see the picture I'm paintin?"

"It's a little abstract. So you sayin  _you_  okay with Bailey benching you?"

"Nah man, I'm pissed as hell. But she's the love of my life, so… I mean, you get it now, right? I think you could have it with your mystery person. She could be the one. Your ride or die."

"I just hope that cooler heads have prevailed and they haven't run her off. I need to find her, Ben."

~~**J—A** ~~

But for the cleanup going on in the Operating Room in front of him, he was alone scrubbing out, when he found it. Lying by its lonesome on the floor was her scrub-cap. It had a not unpleasant fragrance. Rosemary? Lemongrass? Lavender? Her Shampoo, probably. Must have been one of those herby ones. The cap was not much but it gave him something to go on. Until, quite by chance, he had another something.

"Bokhee, I could hug you right now! Unless you have personal space issues. In which case I will nod graciously at you from a respectable distance."

She had no hang-ups, trip-ups or simply plain uncomfortableness. So, one grateful hug later, he now had two clues.

* * *

"You put a lock on?"

Hospitals were strange places. In one room a baby took his first breath. In another, an old man his last. And then you had a young virgin girl who inhaled a condom off a banana in one and in yet another room a guy with a remote up his butt. It was the circle of life. Unfortunately, with the wide area this circle encompassed, along with its many nooks and crannies, Al was somehow hidden from him.

He'd looked everywhere. Even bearded the lion's den. Or to be more precise, the lion's waiting room. She was nowhere to be found. Likely they were just missing each other as he'd caught a hint of that fresh but heady, foresty perfume when he checked in on Asha. But that could be explained by him continuously taking a whiff of the scrub-cap in his possession. Probably why the aroma adhered to his nostrils. The scent lingered with him. Luckily it wasn't a glass slipper. Sniffing that would not have gone over very well. Not to mention that the scene it painted wouldn't have been aesthetically pleasing. Not at all.

Not planning to invade her privacy, it now seemed like he had no choice. Secret weapon time. He just needed to convince it to unlock for him. A magical metaphorical kiss. Barring that, a heist. It's lucky that he had the requisite skills. Breaking in would be child's play for him. In the distance, sirens. Sometimes he slayed himself with his humor.

Android could maybe best him but Apple operating system? No way! He had an affinity for them iPhones and iPads. The magic touch, really. An Apple a day  _did_   _not_  keep this Doctor away. Poisoned Apples were also no match for his KISS principle… Keep It Simple, Stupid. He could remove any worms, viruses, hijackers, Trojans, malware, spyware, adware, ransomware or phishing links poisoning her Apples. So, of course, Antivirus and AdBlock, duh. They  _did_  say that prevention is better than cure.

Also those Nigerian Princes were about as subtle as Prince Ali without a Geni assist. Looking too good to be true. Plundering the Cave of Wonders for treasure usually meant cleaning out someone else's bank account. So, the learnt lesson here being to never ever give out sensitive information on a webpage linked via email… their Modus Operandi. Nigerian Prince 101, a prerequisite for Step-Siblings 201. Erring on the side of caution, on the other hand, meant sending all unknowns straight to spam.

The trick for him now was figuring out the numerical unlock passkey. With all the hints he'd received from Al and Co. he'd taken a wild stab at guessing her identity. It wasn't difficult. And it's not like the Medical Surgical Community wasn't a hotbed of incestuous knowing of who's who. He had a sneaking suspicion that Al's life with the step-sisters from hell had probably been a constant threat assessment. Bullies do not speak conflict resolution.

Yeah, she locked up that code tight. Like putting the chain on. A four-digit code would have endless permutations. He bet himself that his walking Google would know exactly how many. Speaking of the search engine... Ah, so. A four-digit code would have ten thousand possible combinations. But with Apples new six digit passcode, there were 1 million possible combos. This was not a walk in the park by any measure, but a game of chance, he supposed. And her lucky number was? The Seven Wonders of the World. His lucky number? Being a good listener.

It was worth a shot. Seven, six times. 777 777. And voilà. The kiss that brought her back to life. So to speak. For his trouble he got his first good look at her. Her background and lock-screen wallpaper was The Aurora Borealis and the screensaver superimposed over it was a group selfie of four people, three of whom he recognized. Robbins, Torres and Karev. At a guess he'd have to say that they made up her trio of protective good fairies.

Warren was right, she was a stunning red-head. Just to make sure she was who he thought she was, he held up his hand to cover the lower half of her face. Yes… those eyes… and that smile… intoxicating.

To expel the poison and get Apple on its feet, running smoothly, was his next task. Piece of cake. Since Apple was an American institution though, he could go with 'As American as Apple Pie.' And so it was. Piece of pie. For the simple reason that it required him to do nothing. Al was no slouch. Evidenced by her active Antivirus, AdBlock, Spam folder and updated Apps. Her passcode just required a biometric facelift. In layperson terminology, Touch ID that demands Fingerprint Authentication.

He wasn't complaining though, coz it lead him to her… her to him? Now if only he could bump into her accidentally on purpose.

She took care of that.

"Hello."

"What… How? Who is this and what are you doin with my phone?"

"Bokhee asked me to return it. I've been lookin everywhere for you," he swiftly reassured her. "Oh, and it's Dr. Av… Jackson. It's Jackson." He almost smacked himself. They'd moved way past formalities. Although, to be fair, he still didn't know her real name.

"Dr. Jackson, eh? So, Dr. Jackman how did you unlock my phone?"

He wasn't about to get into  _that_  until he could explain face to face. "You do know you're able to 'Slide to answer' a locked phone when there's an incoming call?"

"Ummhmm." How was it possible for her to convey so much scepticism with just one interjection? Was she getting lessons from Bailey? She seemed to be surrounded by the generous protection and mentorship – not to mention the snarky ad libbing commentary – of many Fairies and Fairy Godparents.

"How bout we meet somewhere and I return your phone to you? We could have a coffee or…"

"Oh, no need. Just leave it at reception. Or rather with Bob at security. I'll get it from him."

"Wouldn't dream of leaving it with a Trusty Bob. He's not your uncle, is he?" Feeling his chance slip through his fingers, even though he caught the quiet snort of laughter at his jest, he quickly continued. "Meet me at the bench outside the South-East entrance. 15 minutes." And he cut the call. Wouldn't do to let the Bokhee matchmaking go to waste.

~~**J—A** ~~

"Seattle weather, am I rite?!"

Now that it was raining more than ever, she could stand under his umbrella, ella, ella, Cinderella? Under Aprella... with an umbrella... eh, eh, eh. Whoa, down boy! Going off track here. "Who are you, really?" he asked.

"I am Anastasia. The last surviving member of the Romanov Dynasty."

"You are?"

"No. But I've always wanted to say that."

"Well you could pass for Russian Royalty, I suppose. You have cold weather skin."

"What's that?"

"The paleness that comes from being indoors. As opposed to being out in the hot sun."

"Alrighty then. Perhaps I should just go over there, earn me some Rubles? Whad'ya think?"

"No. Wha—?" No. No. No. That could halt their love affair before it seriously got going. Long distance relationships were a recipe for disaster. Perhaps the seriousness of the situation called for reflective song. A montage, even. C'mon unbreak his heart, damnit!

"What? Tom got your tongue?"

"But… but… there's no place like home, right?" Tom? Oh, right. Cat.

"I hear that home is where the heart is. But this is not my home. Or my heart. And apparently, not my job either."

"What do you mean? You're breaking my heart here, Al. I thought all that in the OR was just bluster. Didn't my mother do anything?" So much for the voice of reason!

"She did. What you see in front of you is one unemployed surgeon."

"No, no... She can't do that?!"

"She can and they did. They fired me, Jackson!"

"Okay look, I simply refuse to believe that there's never not a solution."

"That's like a triple negative."

"Wait, wait. I got it! We'll fight this. Legally. And... and get you your job back."

"Really, now. Why would I stay where I'm not wanted?"

" _I_ want you. I'm not gonna let this go. I do have some pull here, you know. I'll leverage it."

"I don't want you to."

He was flustered. And panicking. He'd always been able to project his level of inner chill. Not here and now, though. His mind was racing but all he could muster out his lips was an unintelligible, high-pitched squeak.

He calmed himself down. Took a huge breath and put his thinking cap on. Speaking of Caps…

"What are you doin?"

He put her scrub cap on her head. Yes… there it was. She was Al. "Jus makin sure you're you."

He lifted her hand and for the first time noticed the plaster covering her palm. In his panic at her leaving he'd forgotten all about the cruel attack she'd suffered. Lightly carrying the injured hand up to his mouth, he placed a soft, gentle kiss over the bandaged area. If a physical pursuing of lips would do it, he would awaken the fight for justice within this Briar Rose. His Aurora would not lay hurt and asleep, allowed to stagnate. His Snow White would rescue herself from the simmering, sometimes slumbering eternity of bullying. His Cinderella would leave, and he would follow her anywhere.

"The Harper Avery Foundation has hospitals all over the world."

"Yeah and? What are you saying?"

"Let's visit them all. We'll go where we're needed. Really help people."

"We?"

"You don't think I'm gonna let you do it on your own, huh?"

"But… but what about your work here? Your contract? Your mother?"

"My mother. I forgot about her. But she's managing fine without me. She'll come around."

"Well… I have wanted to join 'Doctors without Borders.' Jackson, there's this young boy from Jordan," she got excited here. "His name is Kamal. He's lost everyone in his life. And he has these tumors on his hands that I just know you can fix…"

"We'll go there first." Her faith in him was humbling. "See, we got this. We can do it. Together."

He had been in many places, but he'd never been in Cahoots. Apparently, you couldn't go alone. You had to be in Cahoots with someone. Just like Media and the Government were in a conspiracy cahoots, but with a more positive spin.

He would show her a whole new world. But then, so would she. Don't you dare close your eyes, Al, there's a hundred thousand things to see. Hold your breath, it gets better. A whole new world. At every turn a surprise. They'd have new horizons to pursue. A thrilling chase… A wondrous place… For…

"Me and you."

"Me and you."

Together forever. Never to part. He would move heaven and earth to be together forever with her.

"I have feelings, you know. I have a lot of em."

"About what?"

"You. About you, Aprella. For you."

"How did you know?"

"It wasn't hard." He been knew. "You know the best solution is never to speak to any of them ever again."

"I'm down with that."

"How bout a fresh start? I'd really like it if you'd swipe right on me."

"Wh— you want that? You really want that?"

He gazed teary-eyed off into the distance with no idea as to why it felt so emotional. Or was it just that they were standing out in the rain. "You betcha," he got out glad to be over the sound of silence.

"Well okay then. If you're sure..." and she landed one stinging slap. To his left cheek. The plaster even made a squishing sound as it passed by. He caught her own wince of pain. Girl was committed.

"Err... ouch. Why'd you slap me?! And on my good side, too."

"Oh, sorry." This time she swiped with her left hand. To his right cheek.

"Wait! Stop! I think I see where you're going with this. Swiping right is Tinder lingo. Swipe right if you're interested."

"Oh. Tinder. Oh."

He flexed his jaw, opened and closed his mouth to check that nothing was broken. No damage done. Girl had mean fisticuffs. "From the top, okay? Jackson Avery at your service, Left-hook Ariel-Al-Aurora-Snow-Aprella… Sloan-Anastasia?" he bow-curtsied. Yeah, she appealed to him on so many levels. Even Sloan. And the presumed Red-headed Russian Royalty? Why she was just added there as a lark. And maybe coz of her hair color.

Whoever she was, laughed that twinkling, contagious laugh of hers and cleared it up. "Hi, Jackson Avery. I'm April. April Kepner."

* * *

So it was not a question of who saved whom. They rescued each other. And they lived mostly happily ever after. With ups and downs, of course. They faced challenges and worked through their problems. If life gave them melons… then maybe they were dyslexic. No, but seriously… When life handed them lemons they spit lemon juice in life's eye, they made hay not only in sunshine but all… the… time… and they Carpe'd the Diem. Every one of those positive clichés. For while life was no fairytale, neither was it an American, and more specifically a Shonda Rhimes, stat. Logically it was an improbability that all marriages ended in divorce. IRL it would be considered a statistical anomaly but in Shondaland… Mercury was in Gatorade, nonsense was written as plausible, soapy melodrama ruled the roost and all marriages went there to die. Luckily for them, Shonda's Land was no longer their place of residence. The world was their oyster. So…

"Th-Th-The, Th-Th-The, Th-Th... That's all, folks!"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And six months later... For those that have been waiting, apologies for the long wait. This was addition number three to the challenge. Once Again, Thank you for making it this far! Please don't forget to leave a review, guessing the (obvious) author and all the movies this piece was based on. Hope to see you again. Soon :)


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